THE     DESCENT    OF    MAN 
AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BOOKS  BY  EDITH  WHARTON 

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THE  DESCENT 
OF  MAN 

AND 
OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

EDITH 


W  H  A  R  T  O  N 


CHARLES      SCRIBNERS 
SONS,      NEW      YORK:     1904 


ightf  .1904,  by  Charles  Scribners  Sons 


The  Trow  Press,  New  York 


TO 
EDWARD  L.   BURLINGAME 

MY  FIRST   AND   KINDEST  CRITIC 


804237 


TABLE     OF    CONTENTS 

I 

The  Descent  of  Man  1 

II 

The  Mission  of  Jane  37 

III 

The  Other  Two  71 

IV 

The  Quicksand  109 

V 

The  Dilettante  141 

VI 

The  Reckoning  161 

VII 

Expiation 

VIII 

The  Lady's  Maid's  Bell 

IX 

A   Venetian  Night's  Entertainment 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 


WHEN  Professor  Linyard  came  back  from 
his  holiday  in  the  Maine  woods  the  air  of 
rejuvenation  he  brought  with  him  was  due 
less  to  the  influences  of  the  climate  than  to  the  com 
panionship  he  had  enjoyed  on  his  travels.     To  Mrs. 
Linyard's  observant  eye  he  had  appeared  to  set  out 
alone;  but  an  invisible  traveller  had  in  fact  accom 
panied  him,  and  if  his  heart  beat  high  it  was  simply 
at  the  pitch  of  his  adventure:  for  the  Professor  had 
eloped  with  an  idea. 

No  one  who  has  not  tried  the  experiment  can 
divine  its  exhilaration.  Professor  Linyard  would  not 
have  changed  places  with  any  hero  of  romance 
pledged  to  a  flesh-and-blood  abduction.  The  most  fas 
cinating  female  is  apt  to  be  encumbered  with  lug 
gage  and  scruples:  to  take  up  a  good  deal  of  room 
in  the  present  and  overlap  inconveniently  into  the 
future;  whereas  an  idea  can  accommodate  itself  to 
a  single  molecule  of  the  brain  or  expand  to  the  cir 
cumference  of  the  horizon.  The  Professor's  compan 
ion  had  to  the  utmost  this  quality  of  adaptability.  As 
the  express  train  whirled  him  away  from  the  some 
what  inelastic  circle  of  Mrs.  Linyard's  affections,  his 


THE   DESCENT   OF   MAN 

idea  seemed  to  be  -sitting  opposite  him,  and  their  eyes 
met  every  moment  or  two  in  a  glance  of  joyous  com 
plicity;  yet  when  a  friend  of  the  family  presently 
joined  him  and  began  to  talk  about  college  matters, 
the  idea  slipped  out  of  sight  in  a  flash,  and  the  Pro 
fessor  would  have  had  no  difficulty  in  proving  that 
he  was  alone. 

But  if,  from  the  outset,  he  found  his  idea  the  most 
agreeable  of  fellow-travellers,  it  was  only  in  the 
aromatic  solitude  of  the  woods  that  he  tasted  the  full 
savour  of  his  adventure.  There,  during  the  long  cool 
August  days,  lying  full  length  on  the  pine-needles 
and  gazing  up  into  the  sky,  he  would  meet  the  eyes 
of  his  companion  bending  over  him  like  a  nearer 
heaven.  And  what  eyes  they  were! — clear  yet  un 
fathomable,  bubbling  with  inexhaustible  laughter,  yet 
drawing  their  freshness  and  sparkle  from  the  central 
depths  of  thought!  To  a  man  who  for  twenty  yars 
had  faced  an  eye  reflecting  the  commonplace  with  per 
fect  accuracy,  these  escapes  into  the  inscrutable  had 
always  been  peculiarly  inviting;  but  hitherto  the  Pro 
fessor's  mental  infidelities  had  been  restricted  by  an 
unbroken  and  relentless  domesticity.  Now,  for  the 
first  time  since  his  marriage,  chance  had  given  him 
six  weeks  to  himself,  and  he  was  coming  home  with 
his  lungs  full  of  liberty. 

It  must  not  be  inferred  that  the  Professor's  do- 


THE    DESCENT    0F    M-A-N 

mestic  relations  were  defective:  they  were  in  fact  so 
complete  that  it  was  almost  impossible  to  get  away 
from  them.  It  is  the  happy  husbands  who  are  really 
in  bondage;  the  little  rift  within  the  lute  is  often  a 
passage  to  freedom.  Marriage  had  given  the  Pro 
fessor  exactly  what  he  had  sought  in  it:  a  comfort 
able  lining  to  life.  The  impossibility  of  rising  to 
sentimental  crises  had  made  him  scrupulously  care 
ful  not  to  shirk  the  practical  obligations  of  the  bond. 
He  took  as  it  were  a  sociological  view  of  his  case,  and 
modestly  regarded  himself  as  a  brick  in  that  founda 
tion  on  which  the  state  is  supposed  to  rest.  Perhaps 
if  Mrs.  Linyard  had  cared  about  entomology,  or  had 
taken  sides  in  the  war  over  the  transmission  of  ac 
quired  characteristics,  he  might  have  had  a  less 
impersonal  notion  of  marriage;  but  he  was  uncon 
scious  of  any  deficiency  in  their  relation,  and  if  con 
sulted  would  probably  have  declared  that  he  didn't 
want  any  woman  bothering  with  his  beetles.  His  real 
life  had  always  lain  in  the  universe  of  thought,  in 
that  enchanted  region  which,  to  those  who  have  lin 
gered  there,  comes  to  have  so  much  more  colour  and 
substance  than  the  painted  curtain  hanging  before  it. 
The  Professor's  particular  veil  of  Maia  was  a  nar 
row  strip  of  homespun  woven  in  a  monotonous  pat 
tern;  but  he  had  only  to  lift  it  to  step  into  an  empire. 
This  unseen  universe  was  thronged  with  the  most 


THE   DESCENT    OF    MAN 

seductive  shapes:  the  Professor  moved  Sultan-like 
through  a  seraglio  of  ideas.  But  of  all  the  lovely  ap 
paritions  that  wove  their  spells  about  him,  none  had 
ever  worn  quite  so  persuasive  an  aspect  as  this  latest 
favourite.  For  the  others  were  mostly  rather  grave 
companions,  serious-minded  and  elevating  enough  to 
have  passed  muster  in  a  Ladies'  Debating  Club;  but 
this  new  fancy  of  the  Professor's  was  simply  one  em 
bodied  laugh.  It  was,  in  other  words,  the  smile  of 
relaxation  at  the  end  of  a  long  day's  toil:  the  flash  of 
irony  which  the  laborious  mind  projects,  irresistibly, 
over  labour  conscientiously  performed.  The  Professor 
had  always  been  a  hard  worker.  If  'he  was  an  indul 
gent  friend  to  his  ideas  he  was  also  a  stern  task 
master  to  them.  For,  in  addition  to  their  other  duties, 
they  had  to  support  his  family:  to  pay  the  butcher 
and  baker,  and  provide  for  Jack's  schooling  and 
Millicent's  dresses.  The  Professor's  household  was  a 
modest  one,  yet  it  tasked  his  ideas  to  keep  it  up  to 
his  wife's  standard.  Mrs.  Linyard  was  not  an  exact 
ing  wife,  and  she  took  enough  pride  in  her  husband's 
attainments  to  pay  for  her  honours  by  turning  Milli 
cent's  dresses  and  darning  Jack's  socks  and  going  to 
the  College  receptions  year  after  year  in  the  same 
black  silk  with  shiny  seams.  It  consoled  her  to  see  an 
occasional  mention  of  Professor  Linyard's  remarkable 
monograph  on  the  Ethical  Reactions  of  the  Infusoria, 
[4] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

or  an  allusion  to  his  investigations  into  the  Uncon 
scious  Cerebration  of  the  Amoeba. 

Still  there  were  moments  when  the  healthy  indif 
ference  of  Jack  and  Millicent  reacted  on  the  maternal 
sympathies;  when  Mrs.  Linyard  would  have  made 
her  husband  a  railway  director,  if  by  this  trans 
formation  she  might  have  increased  her  boy's  allow 
ance  and  given  her  daughter  a  new  hat,  or  a  set  of 
furs  such  as  the  other  girls  were  wearing.  Of  such 
moments  of  rebellion  the  Professor  himself  was  not 
wholly  unconscious.  He  could  not  indeed  understand 
why  any  one  should  want  a  new  hat;  and  as  to  an 
allowance,  he  had  had  much  less  money  at  college 
than  Jack,  and  had  yet  managed  to  buy  a  microscope 
and  collect  a  few  "specimens";  while  Jack  was  free 
from  such  expensive  tastes!  But  the  Professor  did 
not  let  his  want  of  sympathy  interfere  with  the  dis 
charge  of  his  paternal  obligations.  He  worked  hard 
to  keep  the  wants  of  his  family  gratified,  and  it  was 
precisely  in  the  endeavour  to  attain  this  end  that  he  at 
length  broke  down  and  had  to  cease  from  work  alto 
gether. 

To  cease  from  work  was  not  to  cease  from  thought 
of  it;  and  in  the  unwonted  pause  from  effort  the 
Professor  found  himself  taking  a  general  survey  of 
the  field  he  had  travelled.  At  last  it  was  possible  to 
lift  his  nose  from  the  loom,  to  step  a  moment  in 
[5] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

front  of  the  tapestry  he  had  been  weaving.  From  this 
first  inspection  of  the  pattern  so  long  wrought  over 
from  behind,  it  was  natural  to  glance  a  little  farther 
and  seek  its  reflection  in  the  public  eye.  It  was  not 
indeed  of  his  special  task  that  he  thought  in  this  con 
nection.  He  was  but  one  of  the  great  army  of  weavers 
at  work  among  the  threads  of  that  cosmic  woof;  and 
what  he  sought  was  the  general  impression  their 
labour  had  produced. 

When  Professor  Linyard  first  plied  his  microscope, 
the  audience  of  the  man  of  science  had  been  composed 
of  a  few  fellow-students,  sympathetic  or  hostile  as 
their  habits  of  mind  predetermined,  but  versed  in  the 
jargon  of  the  profession  and  familiar  with  the  point 
of  departure.  In  the  intervening  quarter  of  a  century, 
however,  this  little  group  had  been  swallowed  up  in 
a  larger  public.  Every  one  now  read  scientific  books 
and  expressed  an  opinion  on  them.  The  ladies  and 
the  clergy  had  taken  them  up  first;  now  they  had 
passed  to  the  school-room  and  the  kindergarten.  Daily 
life  was  regulated  on  scientific  principles;  the  daily 
papers  had  their  "Scientific  Jottings";  nurses  passed 
examinations  in  hygienic  science,  and  babies  were  fed 
and  dandled  according  to  the  new  psychology. 

The  very  fact  that  scientific  investigation  still  had, 
to  some  minds,  the  flavor  of  heterodoxy,  gave  it  a  per 
ennial  interest.  The  mob  had  broken  down  the  walls 
[6] 


THE   DESCENT    OF    MAN 

of  tradition  to  batten  in  the  orchard  of  forbidden 
knowledge.  The  inaccessible  goddess  whom  the  Pro 
fessor  had  served  in  his  youth  now  offered  her  charms 
in  the  market-place.  And  yet  it  was  not  the  same 
goddess,  after  all,  but  a  pseudo-science  masquerading 
in  the  garb  of  the  real  divinity.  This  false  goddess 
had  her  ritual  and  her  literature.  She  had  her  sacred 
books,  written  by  false  priests  and  sold  by  millions 
to  the  faithful.  In  the  most  successful  of  these  works, 
ancient  dogma  and  modern  discovery  were  depicted 
in  a  close  embrace  under  the  lime-lights  of  a  hazy 
transcendentalism ;  and  the  tableau  never  failed  of 
its  effect.  Some  of  the  books  designed  on  this  pop 
ular  model  had  lately  fallen  into  the  Professor's 
hands,  and  they  filled  him  with  mingled  rage  and 
hilarity.  The  rage  soon  died:  he  came  to  regard  this 
mass  of  pseudo-literature  as  protecting  the  truth 
from  desecration.  But  the  hilarity  remained,  and 
flowed  into  the  form  of  his  idea.  And  the  idea — the 
divine  incomparable  idea — was  simply  that  he  should 
avenge  his  goddess  by  satirising  her  false  interpreters. 
He  would  write  a  skit  on  the  "popular"  scientific 
book;  he  would  so  heap  platitude  on  platitude,  fallacy 
on  fallacy,  false  analogy  on  false  analogy,  so  use  his 
superior  knowledge  to  abound  in  the  sense  of  the 
ignorant,  that  even  the  gross  crowd  would  join  in 
the  laugh  against  its  augurs.  And  the  laugh  should 
[7] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

be  something  more  than  the  distention  of  mental  mus 
cles;  it  should  be  the  trumpet-blast  bringing  down 
the  walls  of  ignorance,  or  at  least  the  little  stone 
striking  the  giant  between  the  eyes. 

II 

ri^  HE  Professor,  on  presenting  his  card,  had  im- 
•*•  agined  that  it  would  command  prompt  access  to 
the  publisher's  sanctuary;  but  the  young  man  who 
read  his  name  was  not  moved  to  immediate  action. 
It  was  clear  that  Professor  Linyard  of  Hillbridge 
University  was  not  a  specific  figure  to  the  purveyors 
of  popular  literature.  But  the  publisher  was  an  old 
friend;  and  when  the  card  had  finally  drifted  to  his 
office  on  the  languid  tide  of  routine  he  came  forth  at 
once  to  greet  his  visitor. 

The  warmth  of  his  welcome  convinced  the  Pro 
fessor  that  he  had  been  right  in  bringing  his  manu 
script  to  Ned  Harviss.  He  and  Harviss  had  been  at 
Hillbridge  together,  and  the  future  publisher  had 
been  one  of  the  wildest  spirits  in  that  band  of  col 
lege  outlaws  which  yearly  turns  out  so  many  inoffen 
sive  citizens  and  kind  husbands  and  fathers.  The 
Professor  knew  the  taming  qualities  of  life.  He  was 
aware  that  many  of  his  most  reckless  comrades  had 
been  transformed  into  prudent  capitalists  or  cowed 
wage-earners;  but  he  was  almost  sure  that  he  could 
[8] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

count  on  Harviss.  So  rare  a  sense  of  irony,  so  keen  a 
perception  of  relative  values,  could  hardly  have  been 
blunted  even  by  twenty  years'  intercourse  with  the 
obvious. 

The  publisher's  appearance  was  a  little  disconcert 
ing.  He  looked  as  if  he  had  been  fattened  on  popular 
fiction ;  and  his  fat  was  full  of  optimistic  creases.  The 
Professor  seemed  to  see  him  bowing  into  the  office  a 
long  train  of  spotless  heroines  laden  with  the  maiden 
tribute  of  the  hundredth  thousand  volume. 

Nevertheless,  his  welcome  was  reassuring.  He  did 
not  disown  his  early  enormities,  and  capped  his  vis 
itor's  tentative  allusions  by  such  flagrant  references 
to  the  past  that  the  Professor  produced  his  manu 
script  without  a  scruple. 

"What — you  don't  mean  to  say  you've  been  doing 
something  in  our  line?" 

The  Professor  smiled.  "You  publish  scientific  books 
sometimes,  don't  you?" 

The  publisher's  optimistic  creases  relaxed  a  little. 
"H'm — it  all  depends — I'm  afraid  you're  a  little 
too  scientific  for  us.  We  have  a  big  sale  for  scientific 
breakfast  foods,  but  not  for  the  concentrated  essences. 
In  your  case,  of  course,  I  should  be  delighted  to 
stretch  a  point;  but  in  your  own  interest  I  ought  to 
tell  you  that  perhaps  one  of  the  educational  houses 
would  do  you  better." 

[9] 


THE   DESCENT   OP   MAN 

The  Professor  leaned  back,  still  smiling  luxuri 
ously. 

"Well,  look  it  over— I  rather  think  you'll  take  it." 

"Oh,  we'll  take  it,  as  I  say;  but  the  terms  might 
not—" 

"No  matter  about  the  terms — " 

The  publisher  threw  his  head  back  with  a  laugh. 
"I  had  no  idea  that  science  was  so  profitable;  we  find 
our  popular  novelists  are  the  hardest  hands  at  a  bar 
gain." 

"Science  is  disinterested,"  the  Professor  corrected 
him.  "And  I  have  a  fancy  to  have  you  publish  this 
thing." 

"That's  immensely  good  of  you,  my  dear  fellow. 
Of  course  your  name  goes  with  a  certain  public — 
and  I  rather  like  the  originality  of  our  bringing  out 
a  worlj;  so  out  of  our  line.  I  daresay  it  may  boom  us 
both."  His  creases  deepened  at  the  thought,  and  he 
shone  encouragingly  on  the  Professor's  leave-taking. 

Within  a  fortnight,  a  line  from  Harviss  recalled 
the  Professor  to  town.  He  had  been  looking  forward 
with  immense  zest  to  this  second  meeting;  Harviss's 
college  roar  was  in  his  tympanum,  and  he  could  al 
ready  hear  the  protracted  chuckle  which  would  follow 
his  friend's  progress  through  the  manuscript.  He 
was  proud  of  the  adroitness  with  which  he  had  kept 
his  secret  from  Harviss,  had  maintained  to  the  last 
[10] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

the  pretence  of  a  serious  work,  in  order  to  give  the 
keener  edge  to  his  reader's  enjoyment.  Not  since 
under-graduate  days  had  the  Professor  tasted  such 
a  draught  of  pure  fun  as  his  anticipations  now  poured 
for  him. 

This  time  his  card  brought  instant  admission.  He 
was  bowed  into  the  office  like  a  successful  novelist, 
and  Harviss  grasped  him  with  both  hands. 

"Well — do  you  mean  to  take  it?"  he  asked  with  a 
lingering  coquetry. 

"Take  it?  Take  it,  my  dear  fellow?  It's  in  press 
already — you'll  excuse  my  not  waiting  to  consult  you  ? 
There  will  be  no  difficulty  about  terms,  I  assure  you, 
and  we  had  barely  time  to  catch  the  autumn  market. 
My  dear  Linyard,  why  didn't  you  tell  me?"  His 
voice  sank  to  a  reproachful  solemnity,  and  he  pushed 
forward  his  own  arm-chair. 

The  Professor  dropped  into  it  with  a  chuckle.  "And 
miss  the  joy  of  letting  you  find  out?" 

"Well — it  was  a  joy."  Harviss  held  out  a  box  of 
his  best  cigars.  "I  don't  know  when  I've  had  a  bigger 
sensation.  It  was  so  deucedly  unexpected — and,  my 
dear  fellow,  you've  brought  it  so  exactly  to  the  right 
shop." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  so,"  said  the  Professor 
modestly. 

Harviss  laughed  in  rich  appreciation.  "I  don't  sup- 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

pose  you  had  a  doubt  of  it ;  but  of  course  I  was  quite 
unprepared.  And  it's  so  extraordinarily  out  of  your 
line—" 

The  Professor  took  off  his  glasses  and  rubbed  them 
with  a  slow  smile. 

"Would  you  have  thought  it  so — at  college  ?" 

Harviss  stared.  "At  college? — Why,  you  were  the 
most  iconoclastic  devil — " 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause.  The  Professor  re 
stored  his  glasses  and  looked  at  his  friend.  "Well — ?" 
he  said  simply. 

"Well—?"  echoed  the  other,  still  staring.  "Ah— 
I  see;  you  mean  that  that's  what  explains  it.  The 
swing  of  the  pendulum,  and  so  forth.  Well,  I  admit 
it's  not  an  uncommon  phenomenon.  I've  conformed 
myself,  for  example;  most  of  our  crowd  have,  I  be 
lieve;  but  somehow  I  hadn't  expected  it  of  you." 

The  close  observer  might  have  detected  a  faint  sad 
ness  under  the  official  congratulation  of  his  tone;  but 
the  Professor  was  too  amazed  to  have  an  ear  for  such 
fine  shades. 

"Expected  it  of  me?  Expected  what  of  me?"  he 
gasped.  "What  in  heaven  do  you  think  this  thing 
is?"  And  he  struck  his  fist  on  the  manuscript  which 
lay  between  them. 

Harviss  had  recovered  his  optimistic  creases.  He 
rested  a  benevolent  eye  on  the  document. 
[12] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

"Why,  your  apologia — your  confession  of  faith,  I 
should  call  it.  You  surely  must  have  seen  which  way 
you  were  going?  You  can't  have  written  it  in  your 
sleep  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  I  was  wide  awake  enough,"  said  the  Pro 
fessor  faintly. 

"Well,  then,  why  are  you  staring  at  me  as  if  I  were 
not?"  Harviss  leaned  forward  to  lay  a  reassuring 
hand  on  his  visitor's  worn  coat-sleeve.  "Don't  mis 
take  me,  my  dear  Linyard.  Don't  fancy  there  was 
the  least  unkindness  in  my  allusion  to  your  change 
of  front.  What  is  growth  but  the  shifting  of  the 
stand-point?  Why  should  a  man  be  expected  to  look 
at  life  with  the  same  eyes  at  twenty  and — at  our  age  ? 
It  never  occurred  to  me  that  you  could  feel  the  least 
delicacy  in  admitting  that  you  have  come  round  a 
little — have  fallen  into  line,  so  to  speak." 

But  the  Professor  had  sprung  up  as  if  to  give  his 
lungs  more  room  to  expand;  and  from  them  there 
issued  a  laugh  which  shook  the  editorial  rafters. 

"Oh,  Lord,  oh,  Lord — is  it  really  as  good  as  that  ?" 

Harviss  had  glanced  instinctively  toward  the  elec 
tric  bell  on  his  desk;  he  was  evidently  prepared  for 
an  emergency. 

"My  dear  fellow — "  he  began  in  a  soothing  tone. 

"Oh,  let  me  have  my  laugh  out,  do,"  implored  the 
Professor.  "I'll — I'll  quiet  down  in  a  minute;  you 
[13] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

needn't  ring  for  the  young  man."  He  dropped  into  his 
chair  again  and  grasped  its  arms  to  steady  his  shak 
ing.  "This  is  the  best  laugh  I've  had  since  college/' 
he  brought  out  between  his  paroxysms.  And  then,  sud 
denly,  he  sat  up  with  a  groan.  "But  if  it's  as  good  as 
that  it's  a  failure!"  he  exclaimed. 

Harviss,  stiffening  a  little,  examined  the  tip  of  his 
cigar.  "My  dear  Linyard,"  he  said  at  length,  "I  don't 
understand  a  word  you're  saying." 

The  Professor  succumbed  to  a  fresh  access,  from 
the  vortex  of  which  he  managed  to  fling  out — "But 
that's  the  very  core  of  the  joke!" 

Harviss  looked  at  him  resignedly.  "What  is?" 

"Why,  your  not  seeing — your  not  understand 
ing—" 

"Not  understanding  what?" 

"Why,  what  the  book  is  meant  to  be."  His  laugh 
ter  subsided  again  and  he  sat  gazing  thoughtfully  at 
the  publisher.  "Unless  it  means,"  he  wound  up,  "that 
I've  over-shot  the  mark." 

"If  I  am  the  mark,  you  certainly  have,"  said  Har 
viss,  with  a  glance  at  the  clock. 

The  Professor  caught  the  glance  and  interpreted 
it.  "The  book  is  a  skit,"  he  said,  rising. 

The  other  stared.  "A  skit?  It's  not  serious,  you 
mean?" 

"Not  to  me — but  it  seems  you've  taken  it  so." 
[14] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

"You  never  told  me — "  began  the  publisher  in  a 
ruffled  tone. 

"No,  I  never  told  you/'  said  the  Professor. 

Harviss  sat  staring  at  the  manuscript  between 
them.  "I  don't  pretend  to  be  up  in  such  recondite 
forms  of  humour,"  he  said  still  stiffly.  "Of  course  you 
address  yourself  to  a  very  small  class  of  readers." 

"Oh,  infinitely  small,"  admitted  the  Professor,  ex 
tending  his  hand  toward  the  manuscript. 

Harviss  appeared  to  be  pursuing  his  own  train  of 
thought.  "That  is,"  he  continued,  "if  you  insist  on  an 
ironical  interpretation." 

"If  I  insist  on  it — what  do  you  mean?" 

The  publisher  smiled  faintly.  "Well— isn't  the 
book  susceptible  of  another?  If  /  read  it  without  see 
ing—" 

"Well?"  murmured  the  other,  fascinated. 

— "why  shouldn't  the  rest  of  the  world?"  declared 
Harviss  boldly.  "I  represent  the  Average  Reader — 
that's  my  business,  that's  what  I've  been  training  my 
self  to  do  for  the  last  twenty  years.  It's  a  mission 
like  another — the  thing  is  to  do  it  thoroughly;  not 
to  cheat  and  compromise.  I  know  fellows  who  are 
publishers  in  business  hours  and  dilettantes  the  rest 
of  the  time.  Well,  they  never  succeed :  convictions  are  /  \ 
just  as  necessary  in  business  as  in  religion.  But  that's  j 
not  the  point — I  was  going  to  say  that  if  you'll  let 
[15] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 
me  handle  this  book  as  a  genuine  thing  I'll  guaran 
tee  to  make  it  go." 

The  Professor  stood  motionless,  his  hand  still  on 
the  manuscript. 

"A  genuine  thing?"  he  echoed. 

"A  serious  piece  of  work — the  expression  of  your 
convictions.  I  tell  you  there's  nothing  the  public  likes 
as  much  as  convictions — they'll  always  follow  a  man 
who  believes  in  his  own  ideas.  And  this  book  is  just 
on  the  line  of  popular  interest.  You've  got  hold  of  a 
big  thing.  It's  full  of  hope  and  enthusiasm:  it's  writ 
ten  in  the  religious  key.  There  are  passages  in  it  that 
would  do  splendidly  in  a  Birthday  Book — things  that 
popular  preachers  would  quote  in  their  sermons.  If 
you'd  wanted  to  catch  a  big  public  you  couldn't  have 
gone  about  it  in  a  better  way.  The  thing's  perfect  for 
my  purpose — I  wouldn't  let  you  alter  a  word  of  it. 
It  will  sell  like  a  popular  novel  if  you'll  let  me  handle 
it  in  the  right  way." 


Ill 


T  1  7HEN   the  Professor  left  Harviss's   office  the 

^  ^  manuscript   remained   behind.    He  thought  he 

had  been  taken  by  the  huge  irony  of  the  situation — 

by  the   enlarged  circumference  of  the  joke.   In  its 

original  form,  as  Harviss  had  said,  the  book  would 

[16] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

have  addressed  itself  to  a  very  limited  circle:  now  it 
would  include  the  world.  The  elect  would  understand ; 
the  crowd  would  not;  and  his  work  would  thus  serve 
a  double  purpose.  And,  after  all,  nothing  was  changed 
in  the  situation;  not  a  word  of  the  book  was  to  be 
altered.  The  change  was  merely  in  the  publisher's 
point  of  view,  and  in  the  "tip"  he  was  to  give  the  re 
viewers.  The  Professor  had  only  to  hold  his  tongue 
and  look  serious. 

These  arguments  found  a  strong  reinforcement  in 
the  large  premium  which  expressed  Harviss's  sense  of 
his  opportunity.  As  a  satire  the  book  would  have 
brought  its  author  nothing;  in  fact,  its  cost  would 
have  come  out  of  his  own  pocket,  since,  as  Harviss 
assured  him,  no  publisher  would  have  risked  taking 
it.  But  as  a  profession  of  faith,  as  the  recantation 
of  an  eminent  biologist,  whose  leanings  had  hitherto 
been  supposed  to  be  toward  a  cold  determinism,  it 
would  bring  in  a  steady  income  to  author  and  pub 
lisher.  The  offer  found  the  Professor  in  a  moment 
of  financial  perplexity.  His  illness,  his  unwonted 
holiday,  the  necessity  of  postponing  a  course  of  well- 
paid  lectures,  had  combined  to  diminish  his  resources ; 
and  when  Harviss  offered  him  an  advance  of  a  thou 
sand  dollars  the  esoteric  savour  of  the  joke  became 
irresistible.  It  was  still  as  a  joke  that  he  persisted 
in  regarding  the  transaction;  and  though  he  had 
[17] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

pledged  himself  not  to  betray  the  real  intent  of  the 
book,  he  held  in  petto  the  notion  of  some  day  being 
able  to  take  the  public  into  his  confidence.  As  for  the 
initiated,  they  would  know  at  once:  and  however  long 
a  face  he  pulled  his  colleagues  would  see  the  tongue 
in  his  cheek.  Meanwhile  it  fortunately  happened  that, 
even  if  the  book  should  achieve  the  kind  of  triumph 
prophesied  by  Harviss,  it  would  not  appreciably  in 
jure  its  author's  professional  standing.  Professor 
Linyard  was  known  chiefly  as  a  microscopist.  On 
the  structure  and  habits  of  a  certain  class  of  coleop- 
tera  he  was  the  most  distinguished  living  authority; 
but  none  save  his  intimate  friends  knew  what  general 
izations  on  the  destiny  of  man  he  had  drawn  from 
these  special  studies.  He  might  have  published  a 
treatise  on  the  Filioque  without  shaking  the  con 
fidence  of  those  on  whose  approval  his  reputation 
rested;  and  moreover  he  was  sustained  by  the  thought 
that  one  glance  at  his  book  would  let  them  into  its 
secret.  In  fact,  so  sure  was  he  of  this  that  he  won 
dered  the  astute  Harviss  had  cared  to  risk  such 
speedy  exposure.  But  Harviss  had  probably  reflected 
that  even  in  this  reverberating  age  the  opinions  of  the 
laboratory  do  not  easily  reach  the  street;  and  the 
Professor,  at  any  rate,  was  not  bound  to  offer  advice 
on  this  point. 

,     The  determining  cause  of  his  consent  was  the  fact 
[18] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

that  the  book  was  already  in  press.  The  Professor 
knew  little  about  the  workings  of  the  press,  but  the 
phrase  gave  him  a  sense  of  finality,  of  having  been 
caught  himself  in  the  toils  of  that  mysterious  engine. 
If  he  had  had  time  to  think  the  matter  over  his 
scruples  might  have  dragged  him  back;  but  his  con 
science  was  eased  by  the  futility  of  resistance. 


IV 


TiyTRS.  LINYARD  did  not  often  read  the  papers; 
•^  •*•  and  there  was  therefore  a  special  significance 
in  her  approaching  her  husband  one  evening  after 
dinner  with  a  copy  of  the  New  York  Investigator 
in  her  hand.  Her  expression  lent  solemnity  to  the  act: 
Mrs.  Linyard  had  a  limited  but  distinctive  set  of  ex 
pressions,  and  she  now  looked  as  she  did  when  the 
President  of  the  University  came  to  dine. 

"You  didn't  tell  me  of  this,  Samuel,"  she  said  in 
a  slightly  tremulous  voice. 

"Tell  you  of  what?"  returned  the  Professor,  red 
dening  to  the  margin  of  his  baldness. 

"That  you  had  published  a  book — I  might  never 
have  heard  of  it  if  Mrs.  Pease  hadn't  brought  me  the 
paper." 

Her  husband  rubbed  his  eye-glasses  and  groaned. 
"Oh,  you  would  have  heard  of  it,"  he  said  gloomily. 
[19] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

Mrs.  Linyard  stared.  "Did  you  wish  to  keep  it 
from  me,  Samuel?"  And  as  he  made  no  answer,  she 
added  with  irresistible  pride:  "Perhaps  you  don't 
know  what  beautiful  things  have  been  said  about 
it." 

He  took  the  paper  with  a  reluctant  hand.  "Has 
Pease  been  saying  beautiful  things  about  it?" 

"The  Professor?  Mrs.  Pease  didn't  say  he  had 
mentioned  it." 

The  author  heaved  a  sigh  of  relief.  His  book,  as 
Harviss  had  prophesied,  had  caught  the  autumn 
market:  had  caught  and  captured  it.  The  publisher 
had  conducted  the  campaign  like  an  experienced 
strategist.  He  had  completely  surrounded  the  enemy. 
Every  newspaper,  every  periodical,  held  in  ambush 
an  advertisement  of  "The  Vital  Thing."  Weeks  in 
advance  the  great  commander  had  begun  to  form  his 
lines  of  attack.  Allusions  to  the  remarkable  sig 
nificance  of  the  coming  work  had  appeared  first  in 
the  scientific  and  literary  reviews,  spreading  thence 
to  the  supplements  of  the  daily  journals.  Not  a  mo 
ment  passed  without  a  quickening  touch  to  the  public 
consciousness :  seventy  millions  of  people  were  forced 
to  remember  at  least  once  a  day  that  Professor  Lin- 
yard's  book  was  on  the  verge  of  appearing.  Slips 
emblazoned  with  the  question:  Have  you  read  "The 
Vital  Thing'?  fell  from  the  pages  of  popular  novels 
[20] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

and  whitened  the  floors  of  crowded  street-cars.  The 
query,  in  large  lettering,  assaulted  the  traveller  at 
the  railway  bookstall,  confronted  him  on  the  walls 
of  "elevated"  stations,  and  seemed,  in  its  ascending 
scale,  about  to  supplant  the  interrogations  as  to 
sapolio  and  stove-polish  which  animate  our  rural 
scenery. 

On  the  day  of  publication  the  Professor  had  with 
drawn  to  his  laboratory.  The  shriek  of  the  advertise 
ments  was  in  his  ears  and  his  one  desire  was  to  avoid 
all  knowledge  of  the  event  they  heralded.  A  reaction 
of  self-consciousness  had  set  in,  and  if  Harviss's 
cheque  had  sufficed  to  buy  up  the  first  edition  of 
"The  Vital  Thing"  the  Professor  would  gladly  have 
devoted  it  to  that  purpose.  But  the  sense  of  inevi- 
tableness  gradually  subdued  him,  and  he  received  his 
wife's  copy  of  the  Investigator  with  a  kind  of  im 
personal  curiosity.  The  review  was  a  long  one,  full 
of  extracts :  he  saw,  as  he  glanced  over  the  latter,  how 
well  they  would  look  in  a  volume  of  "Selections." 
The  reviewer  began  by  thanking  his  author  "for 
sounding  with  no  uncertain  voice  that  note  of  ring 
ing  optimism,  of  faith  in  man's  destiny  and  the  su 
premacy  of  good,  which  has  too  long  been  silenced 
by  the  whining  chorus  of  a  decadent  nihilism.  .  .  . 
It  is  well,"  the  writer  continued,  "when  such  remind 
ers  come  to  us  not  from  the  moralist  but  from  the 
[21] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

man  of  science — when  from  the  desiccating  atmos 
phere  of  the  laboratory  there  rises  this  glorious  cry  of 
faith  and  reconstruction." 

The  review  was  minute  and  exhaustive.  Thanks  no 
doubt  to  Harviss's  diplomacy,  it  had  been  given  to 
the  Investigator's  "best  man/'  and  the  Professor  was 
startled  by  the  bold  eye  with  which  his  emancipated 
fallacies  confronted  him.  Under  the  reviewer's  han 
dling  they  made  up  admirably  as  truths,  and  their 
author  began  to  understand  Harviss's  regret  that  they 
should  be  be  used  for  any  less  profitable  purpose. 

The  Investigator,  as  Harviss  phrased  it,  "set  the 
pace,"  and  the  other  journals  followed,  finding  it 
easier  to  let  their  critical  man-of -all-work  play  a  va 
riation  on  the  first  reviewer's  theme  than  to  secure 
an  expert  to  "do"  the  book  afresh.  But  it  was  evi 
dent  that  the  Professor  had  captured  his  public,  for 
all  the  resources  of  the  profession  could  not,  as  Har 
viss  gleefully  pointed  out,  have  carried  the  book  so 
straight  to  the  heart  of  the  nation.  There  was  some 
thing  noble  in  the  way  in  which  Harviss  belittled  his 
own  share  in  the  achievement,  and  insisted  on  the 
inutility  of  shoving  a  book  which  had  started  with 
such  headway  on. 

"All  I  ask  you  is  to  admit  that  I  saw  what  would 
happen,"  he  said  with  a  touch  of  professional  pride. 
"I  knew  you'd  struck  the  right  note — I  knew  they'd 
[22] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

be  quoting  you  from  Maine  to  San  Francisco.  Good 
as  fiction?  It's  better — it'll  keep  going  longer." 

"Will  it?"  said  the  Professor  with  a  slight  shud 
der.  He  was  resigned  to  an  ephemeral  triumph,  but 
the  thought  of  the  book's  persistency  frightened  him. 

"I  should  say  so !  Why,  you  fit  in  everywhere — sci 
ence,  theology,  natural  history — and  then  the  all-for- 
the-best  element  which  is  so  popular  just  now.  Why, 
you  come  right  in  with  the  How-to-Relax  series,  and 
they  sell  way  up  in  the  millions.  And  then  the  book's 
so  full  of  tenderness — there  are  such  lovely  things 
in  it  about  flowers  and  children.  I  didn't  know  an 
old  Dryasdust  like  you  could  have  such  a  lot  of  sen 
timent  in  him.  Why,  I  actually  caught  myself  sniv 
elling  over  that  passage  about  the  snowdrops  piercing 
the  frozen  earth;  and  my  wife  was  saying  the  other 
day  that,  since  she's  read  'The  Vital  Thing/  she  be 
gins  to  think  you  must  write  the  'What-Cheer  Col 
umn,'  in  the  Inglenook."  He  threw  back  his  head 
with  a  laugh  which  ended  in  the  inspired  cry :  "And, 
by  George,  sir,  when  the  thing  begins  to  slow  off 
well  start  somebody  writing  against  it,  and  that  will 
run  us  straight  up  into  another  hundred  thousand." 

And  as  earnest  of  this  belief  he  drew  the  Professor 
a  supplementary  cheque. 


[23] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 


MRS.  LINYARD'S  knock  cut  short  the  im 
portunities  of  the  lady  who  had  been  trying  to 
persuade  the  Professor  to  be  taken  by  flashlight  at 
his  study-table  for  the  Christmas  number  of  the 
Inglenook.  On  this  point  the  Professor  had  fancied 
himself  impregnable;  but  the  unwonted  smile  with 
which  he  welcomed  his  wife's  intrusion  showed  that 
his  defences  were  weakening. 

The  lady  from  the  Inglenook  took  the  hint  with 
professional  promptness,  but  said  brightly,  as  she 
snapped  the  elastic  around  her  note-book:  "I  sha'n't 
let  you  forget  me,  Professor." 

The  groan  with  which  he  followed  her  retreat  was 
interrupted  by  his  wife's  question:  "Do  they  pay  you 
for  these  interviews,  Samuel?" 

The  Professor  looked  at  her  with  sudden  attention. 
"Not  directly,"  he  said,  wondering  at  her  expression. 

She  sank  down  with  a  sigh.  "Indirectly,  then?" 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?  I  gave  you  Har- 
viss's  second  cheque  the  other  day — " 

Her  tears  arrested  him.  "Don't  be  hard  on  the  boy, 
Samuel!  I  really  believe  your  success  has  turned  his 
head." 

"The  boy — what  boy?  My  success — ?  Explain 
yourself,  Susan!" 

[24] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

"It's  only  that  Jack  has — has  borrowed  some 
money — which  he  can't  repay.  But  you  mustn't  think 
him  altogether  to  blame,  Samuel.  Since  the  success  of 
your  book  he  has  been  asked  about  so  much — it's 
given  the  children  quite  a  different  position.  Millicent 
says  that  wherever  they  go  the  first  question  asked 
is,  'Are  you  any  relation  of  the  author  of  "The  Vital 
Thing"?'  Of  course  we're  all  very  proud  of  the  book; 
but  it  entails  obligations  which  you  may  not  have 
thought  of  in  writing  it." 

The  Professor  sat  gazing  at  the  letters  and  news 
paper  clippings  on  the  study-table  which  he  had 
just  successfully  defended  from  the  camera  of  the 
Inglenook.  He  took  up  an  envelope  bearing  the  name 
of  a  popular  weekly  paper. 

"I  don't  know  that  the  Inglenook  would  help 
much,"  he  said,  "but  I  suppose  this  might." 

Mrs.  Linyard's  eyes  glowed  with  maternal  avidity. 

"What  is  it,  Samuel?" 

"A  series  of  'Scientific  Sermons'  for  the  Round- 
the-Gas-Log  column  of  The  Woman's  World.  I  be 
lieve  that  journal  has  a  larger  circulation  than  any 
other  weekly,  and  they  pay  in  proportion." 

He  had  not  even  asked  the  extent  of  Jack's  in 
debtedness.  It  had  been  so  easy  to  relieve  recent  do 
mestic  difficulties  by  the  timely  production  of  Har- 
viss's  two  cheques  that  it  now  seemed  natural  to  get 
[25] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

% 
Mrs.  Linyard  out  of  the  room  by  promising  further 

reinforcements.  The  Professor  had  indignantly  re 
jected  Harviss's  suggestion  that  he  should  follow  up 
his  success  by  a  second  volume  on  the  same  lines.  He 
had  sworn  not  to  Tend  more  than  a  passive  support 
to  the  fraud  of  "The  Vital  Thing";  but  the  tempta 
tion  to  free  himself  from  Mrs.  Linyard  prevailed 
over  his  last  scruples,  and  within  an  hour  he  was  at 
work  on  the  Scientific  Sermons. 

The  Professor  was  not  an  unkind  man.  He  really 
enjoyed  making  his  family  happy;  and  it  was  his 
own  business  if  his  reward  for  so  doing  was  that  it 
kept  them  out  of  his  way.  But  the  success  of  "The 
Vital  Thing"  gave  him  more  than  this  negative  sat 
isfaction.  It  enlarged  his  own  existence  and  opened 
new  doors  into  other  lives.  The  Professor,  during  fifty 
virtuous  years,  had  been  cognizant  of  only  two  types 
of  women:  the  fond  and  foolish,  whom  one  married, 
and  the  earnest  and  intellectual,  whom  one  did  not. 
Of  the  two,  he  infinitely  preferred  the  former,  even 
for  conversational  purposes.  But  as  a  social  instru 
ment  woman  was  unknown  to  him ;  and  it  was  not  till 
he  was  drawn  into  the  world  on  the  tide  of  his  literary 
success  that  he  discovered  the  deficiencies  in  his  classi 
fication  of  the  sex.  Then  he  learned  with  astonish 
ment  of  the  existence  of  a  third  type:  the  woman 
who  is  fond  without  foolishness  and  intellectual  with- 
[26] 


THE  DESCE'NT  OF  MAN 

out  earnestness.  Not  that  the  Professor  inspired,  or 
sought  to  inspire,  sentimental  emotions;  but  he  ex 
panded  in  the  warm  atmosphere  of  personal  interest 
which  some  of  his  new  acquaintances  contrived  to 
create  about  him.  It  was  delightful  to  talk  of  serious 
things  in  a  setting  of  frivolity,  and  to  be  personal 
without  being  domestic. 

Even  in  this  new  world,  where  all  subjects  were 
touched  on  lightly,  and  emphasis  was  the  only  in 
delicacy,  the  Professor  found  himself  constrained  to 
endure  an  occasional  reference  to  his  book.  It  was 
unpleasant  at  first;  but  gradually  he  slipped  into  the 
habit  of  hearing  it  talked  of,  and  grew  accustomed 
to  telling  pretty  women  just  'how  "it  had  first  come 
to  him." 

Meanwhile  the  success  of  the  Scientific  Sermons 
was  facilitating  his  family  relations.  His  photograph 
in  the  Inglenook,  to  which  the  lady  of  the  note-book 
had  succeeded  in  appending  a  vivid  interview,  car 
ried  his  fame  to  circles  inaccessible  even  to  "The 
Vital  Thing";  and  the  Professor  found  himself  the 
man  of  the  hour.  He  soon  grew  used  to  the  functions 
of  the  office,  and  gave  out  hundred-dollar  interviews 
on  every  subject,  from  labour-strikes  to  Babism,  with 
a  frequency  which  reacted  agreeably  on  the  domestic 
exchequer.  Presently  his  head  began  to  figure  in  the 
advertising  pages  of  the  magazines.  Admiring  read- 
[27] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

ers  learned  the  name  of  the  only  breakfast-food  in 
use  at  his  table,  of  the  ink  with  which  "The  Vital 
Thing"  had  been  written,  the  soap  with  which  the 
author's  hands  were  washed,  and  the  tissue-builder 
which  fortified  him  for  further  effort.  These  confi 
dences  endeared  the  Professor  to  millions  of  readers, 
and  his  head  passed  in  due  course  from  the  magazine 
and  the  newspaper  to  the  biscuit-tin  and  the  choco 
late-box. 

VI 

THE  Professor,  all  the  while,  was  leading  a 
double  life.  While  the  author  of  "The  Vital 
Thing"  reaped  the  fruits  of  popular  approval,  the 
distinguished  microscopist  continued  his  laboratory 
work  unheeded  save  by  the  few  who  were  engaged  in 
the  same  line  of  investigations.  His  divided  allegiance 
had  not  hitherto  affected  the  quality  of  his  work:  it 
seemed  to  him  that  he  returned  to  the  laboratory  with 
greater  zest  after  an  afternoon  in  a  drawing-room 
where  readings  from  "The  Vital  Thing"  had  alter 
nated  with  plantation  melodies  and  tea.  He  had  long 
ceased  to  concern  himself  with  what  his  colleagues 
thought  of  his  literary  career.  Of  the  few  whom  he 
frequented,  none  had  referred  to  "The  Vital  Thing"; 
and  he  knew  enough  of  their  lives  to  guess  that  their 
silence  might  as  fairly  be  attributed  to  indifference  as 
[28] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

to  disapproval.  They  were  intensely  interested  in  the 
Professor's  views  on  beetles  but  they  really  cared 
very  little  what  he  thought  of  the  Almighty. 

The  Professor  entirely  shared  their  feelings,  and 
one  of  his  chief  reasons  for  cultivating  the  success 
which  accident  had  bestowed  on  him,  was  that  it 
enabled  him  to  command  a  greater  range  of  appli 
ances  for  his  real  work.  He  had  known  what  it  was 
to  lack  books  and  instruments;  and  "The  Vital 
Thing"  was  the  magic  wand  which  summoned  them 
to  his  aid.  For  some  time  he  had  been  feeling  his  way 
along  the  edge  of  a  discovery:  balancing  himself 
with  professional  skill  on  a  plank  of  hypothesis  flung 
across  an  abyss  of  uncertainty.  The  conjecture  was 
the  result  of  years  of  patient  gathering  of  facts:  its 
corroboration  would  take  months  more  of  compari 
son  and  classification.  But  at  the  end  of  the  vista 
victory  loomed.  The  Professor  felt  within  himself 
that  assurance  of  ultimate  justification  which,  to  the 
man  of  science,  makes  a  life-time  seem  the  mere 
comma  between  premiss  and  deduction.  But  he  had 
reached  the  point  where  his  conjectures  required 
formulation.  It  was  only  by  giving  them  expression, 
by  exposing  them  to  the  comment  and  criticism  of  his 
associates,  that  he  could  test  their  final  value;  and 
this  inner  assurance  was  confirmed  by  the  only  friend 
whose  confidence  he  invited. 
[29] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

Professor  Pease,  the  husband  of  the  lady  who  had 
opened  Mrs.  Linyard's  eyes  to  the  triumph  of  "The 
Vital  Thing,"  was  the  repository  of  her  husband's 
scientific  experiences.  What  he  thought  of  "The  Vital 
Thing"  had  never  been  divulged ;  and  he  was  capable 
of  such  vast  exclusions  that  it  was  quite  possible  that 
pervasive  work  had  not  yet  reached  him.  In  any  case, 
it  was  not  likely  to  affect  his  judgment  of  the  au 
thor's  professional  capacity. 

"You  want  to  put  that  all  in  a  book,  Linyard," 
was  Professor  Pease's  conclusion,  after  listening  to 
the  summary  of  his  friend's  projected  work.  "I'm 
sure  you've  got  hold  of  something  big;  but  to  see  it 
clearly  yourself  you  ought  to  outline  it  for  others. 
Take  my  advice — chuck  everything  else  and  get  to 
work  to-morrow.  It's  time  you  wrote  a  book,  anyhow." 

It's  time  you  wrote  a  book,  anyhow!  The  words 
smote  the  Professor  with  mingled  pain  and  ecstasy; 
he  could  have  wept  over  their  significance.  But  his 
friend's  other  phrase  reminded  him  with  a  start  of 
Harviss.  "You  have  got  hold  of  a  big  thing — "  it 
had  been  the  publisher's  first  comment  on  "The  Vital 
Thing."  But  what  a  world  of  meaning  lay  between 
the  two  phrases !  It  was  the  world  in  which  the  pow 
ers  who  fought  for  the  Professor  were  destined  to 
wage  their  final  battle ;  and  for  the  moment  he  had  no 
doubt  of  the  outcome. 

[30] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

"By  George,  I'll  do  it,  Pease!"  he  said,  stretch 
ing  his  hand  to  his  friend. 

The  next  day  he  went  to  town  to  see  Harviss.  He 
wanted  to  ask  for  an  advance  on  the  new  popular 
edition  of  "The  Vital  Thing/'  He  had  determined  to 
drop  a  course  of  supplementary  lectures  at  the  Uni 
versity  and  to  give  himself  up  for  a  year  to  his  book. 
To  do  this  additional  funds  were  necessary;  but 
thanks  to  "The  Vital  Thing"  they  would  be  forth 
coming. 

The  publisher  received  him  as  cordially  as  usual; 
but  the  response  to  his  demand  was  not  as  prompt  as 
his  previous  experience  had  entitled  him  to  expect. 

"Of  course  we'll  be  glad  to  do  what  we  can  for 
you,  Linyard;  but  the  fact  is  we've  decided  to  give 
up  the  idea  of  the  new  edition  for  the  present." 

"You've  given  up  the  new  edition?" 

"Why,  yes — we've  done  pretty  well  by  'The  Vital 
Thing,'  and  we're  inclined  to  think  it's  your  turn  to 
do  something  for  it  now." 

The  Professor  looked  at  him  blankly.  "What  can  I 
do  for  it?"  he  asked — "what  more'  his  accent  added. 

"Why,  put  a  little  new  life  in  it  by  writing  some 
thing  else.  The  secret  of  perpetual  motion  hasn't  yet 
been  discovered,  you  know,  and  it's  one  of  the  laws 
:  of  literature  that  books  which  start  with  a  rush  are 
apt  to  slow  down  sooner  than  the  crawlers.  We've 
[31] 


THE  DESCENT  OF  MAN 
kept  'The  Vital  Thing*  going  for  eighteen  months — 
but,  hang  it,  it  ain't  so  vital  any  more.  We  simply 
couldn't  see  our  way  to  a  new  edition.  Oh,  I  don't 
say  it's  dead  yet — but  it's  moribund,  and  you're  the 
only  man  who  can  resuscitate  it." 

The  Professor  continued  to  stare.  "I — what  can  I 
do  about  it?"  he  stammered. 

"Do  ?  Why,  write  another  like  it — go  it  one  better : 
you  know  the  trick.  The  public  isn't  tired  of  you  by 
any  means;  but  you  want  to  make  yourself  heard 
again  before  anybody  else  cuts  in.  Write  another  book 
— write  two,  and  we'll  sell  them  in  sets  in  a  box:  The 
Vital  Thing  Series.  That  will  take  tremendously  in 
the  holidays.  Try  and  let  us  have  a  new  volume  by 
October — I'll  be  glad  to  give  you  a  big  advance  if 
you'll  sign  a  contract  on  that." 

The  Professor  sat  silent:  there  was  too  cruel  an 
irony  in  the  coincidence. 

Harviss  looked  up  at  him  in  surprise. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter  with  taking  my  advice — 
you're  not  going  out  of  literature,  are  you?" 

The  Professor  rose  from  his  chair.  "No — I'm  go 
ing  into  it,"  he  said  simply. 

"Going  into  it?" 

"I'm  going  to  write  a  real  book — a  serious  one." 

"Good  Lord!  Most  people  think  The  Vital 
Thing'  's  serious." 

[32] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

"Yes — but  I  mean  something  different." 

"In  your  old  line — beetles  and  so  forth?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Professor  solemnly. 

Harviss  looked  at  him  with  equal  gravity.  "Well, 
I'm  sorry  for  that,"  he  said,  "because  it  takes  you 
out  of  our  bailiwick.  But  I  suppose  you've  made 
enough  money  out  of  'The  Vital  Thing'  to  permit 
yourself  a  little  harmless  amusement.  When  you 
want  more  cash  come  back  to  us — only  don't  put  it 
off  too  long,  or  some  other  fellow  will  have  stepped 
into  your  shoes.  Popularity  don't  keep,  you  know ;  and 
the  hotter  the  success  the  quicker  the  commodity  per 
ishes." 

He  leaned  back,  cheerful  and  sententious,  deliver 
ing  his  axioms  with  conscious  kindliness. 

The  Professor,  who  had  risen  and  moved  to  the 
door,  turned  back  with  a  wavering  step. 

"When  did  you  say  another  volume  would  have  to 
be  ready?"  he  faltered. 

"I  said  October — but  call  it  a  month  later.  You 
don't  need  any  pushing  nowadays." 

"And — you'd  have  no  objection  to  letting  me  have 
a  little  advance  now  ?  I  need  some  new  instruments  for 
my  real  work." 

Harviss  extended  a  cordial  hand.  "My  dear  fellow, 
that's  talking — I'll  write  the  cheque  while  you  wait; 
and  I  daresay  we  can  start  up  the  cheap  edition  of 
[33] 


THE    DESCENT    OF    MAN 

'The  Vital  Thing'  at  the  same  time,  if  you'll  pledge 
yourself  to  give  us  the  book  by  November. — How 
much?"  he  asked,  poised  above  his  cheque-book. 

In  the  street,  the  Professor  stood  staring  about  him, 
uncertain  and  a  little  dazed. 

"After  all,  it's  only  putting  it  off  for  six  months," 
he  said  to  himself;  "and  I  can  do  better  work  when  I 
get  my  new  instruments." 

He  smiled  and  raised  his  hat  to  the  passing  vic 
toria  of  a  lady  in  whose  copy  of  "The  Vital  Thing" 
he  had  recently  written: 

Labor  est  etiam  ipsa  voluptas. 


[34] 


THE   MISSION   OF   JANE 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 
I 

LETHBURY,  surveying  his  wife  across  the 
dinner  table,  found  his  transient  glance  ar 
rested  by  an  indefinable  change  in  her  ap 
pearance. 

"How  smart  you  look!  Is  that  a  new  gown?"  he 
asked. 

Her  answering  look  seemed  to  deprecate  his  charg 
ing  her  with  the  extravagance  of  wasting  a  new  gown 
on  him,  and  he  now  perceived  that  the  change  lay 
deeper  than  any  accident  of  dress.  At  the  same  time, 
he  noticed  that  she  betrayed  her  consciousness  of  it 
by  a  delicate,  almost  frightened  blush.  It  was  one 
of  the  compensations  of  Mrs.  Lethbury's  protracted 
childishness  that  she  still  blushed  as  prettily  as  at 
eighteen.  Her  body  had  been  privileged  not  to  out 
strip  her  mind,  and  the  two,  as  it  seemed  to  Lethbury, 
were  destined  to  travel  together  through  an  eternity 
of  girlishness. 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  she  said. 

Since  she  never  did,  he  always  wondered  at  her 
bringing  this  out  as  a  fresh  grievance  against  him; 
but  his  wonder  was  unresentful,  and  he  said  good- 
humouredly:  "You  sparkle  so  that  I  thought  you  had 
on  your  diamonds." 

[37] 


THE   MISSION    OF   JANE 

She  sighed  and  blushed  again. 

"It  must  be/'  he  continued,  "that  you've  been  to  a 
dressmaker's  opening.  You're  absolutely  brimming 
with  illicit  enjoyment." 

She  stared  again,  this  time  at  the  adjective.  His 
adjectives  always  embarrassed  her:  their  unintel 
ligibleness  savoured  of  impropriety. 

"In  short,"  he  summed  up,  "you've  been  doing 
something  that  you're  thoroughly  ashamed  of." 

To  his  surprise  she  retorted:  "I  don't  see  why  I 
should  be  ashamed  of  it!" 

Lethbury  leaned  back  with  a  smile  of  enjoyment. 
When  there  was  nothing  better  going  he  always  liked 
to  listen  to  her  explanations. 

"Well—?"  he  said. 

She  was  becoming  breathless  and  ejaculatory.  "Of 
course  you'll  laugh — you  laugh  at  everything!" 

"That  rather  blunts  the  point  of  my  derision, 
doesn't  it?"  he  interjected;  but  she  pushed  on  with 
out  noticing: 

"It's  so  easy  to  laugh  at  things." 

"Ah,"  murmured  Lethbury  with  relish,  "that's 
Aunt  Sophronia's,  isn't  it?" 

Most  of  his  wife's  opinions  were  heirlooms,  and  he 
,  *  took  a  quaint  pleasure  in  tracing  their  descent.  She 
was  proud  of  their  age,  and  saw  no  reason  for  dis 
carding  them  while  they  were  still  serviceable.  Some, 
[38] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

of  course,  were  so  fine  that  she  kept  them  for  state 
occasions,  like  her  great-grandmother's  Crown  Derby ; 
but  from  the  lady  known  as  Aunt  Sophronia  she  had 
inherited  a  stout  set  of  every-day  prejudices  that 
were  practically  as  good  as  new;  whereas  her  hus 
band's,  as  she  noticed,  were  always  having  to  be  re 
placed.  -In  the  early  days  she  had  fancied  there  might 
be  a  certain  satisfaction  in  taxing  him  with  the  fact; 
but  she  had  long  since  been  silenced  by  the  reply: 
"My  dear,  I'm  not  a  rich  man,  but  I  never  use  an 
opinion  twice  if  I  can  help  it." 

She  was  reduced,  therefore,  to  dwelling  on  his 
moral  deficiencies;  and  one  of  the  most  obvious  of 
these  was  his  refusal  to  take  things  seriously.  On 
this  occasion,  however,  some  ulterior  purpose  kept  her 
from  taking  up  his  taunt. 

"I'm  not  in  the  least  ashamed !"  she  repeated,  with 
the  air  of  shaking  a  banner  to  the  wind;  but  the  do 
mestic  atmosphere  being  calm,  the  banner  drooped 
unheroically. 

"That,"  said  Lethbury  judicially,  "encourages  me 
to  infer  that  you  ought  to  be,  and  that,  consequently, 
you've  been  giving  yourself  the  unusual  pleasure  of 
I    doing  something  I  shouldn't  approve  of." 

She  met  this  with  an  almost  solemn  directness. 
"No,"  she  said.  "You  won't  approve  of  it.  I've  allowed 
for  that." 

[39] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

"Ah,"  he  exclaimed,  setting  down  his  liqueur- 
glass.  "You've  worked  out  the  whole  problem,  eh?" 

"I  believe  so." 

"That's  uncommonly  interesting.  And  what  is  it?" 

She  looked  at  him  quietly.  "A  baby." 

If  it  was  seldom  given  her  to  surprise  him,  she  had 
attained  the  distinction  for  once. 

"A  baby?" 

"Yes." 

"A — human  baby?" 

"Of  course!"  vshe  cried,  with  the  virtuous  resent 
ment  of  the  woman  who  has  never  allowed  dogs  in 
the  house. 

Lethbury's  puzzled  stare  broke  into  a  fresh  smile. 
"A  baby  I  sha'n't  approve  of?  Well,  in  the  abstract 
I  don't  think  much  of  them,  I  admit.  Is  this  an  ab 
stract  baby?" 

Again  she  frowned  at  the  adjective;  but  she  had 
reached  a  pitch  of  exaltation  at  which  such  obstacles 
could  not  deter  her. 

"It's  the  loveliest  baby — "  she  murmured. 
/"Ah,   then   it's   concrete.    It   exists.    In   this   harsh 
world  it  draws  its  breath  in  pain — " 

"It's  the  healthiest  child  I  ever  saw!"  she  indig 
nantly  corrected. 

"You've  seen  it,  then?" 

Again  the  accusing  blush  suffused  her.  "Yes — I've 
seen  it."  [  40  ] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

"And  to  whom  does  the  paragon  belong?" 

And  here  indeed  she  confounded  him.  "To  me — I 
hope,"  she  declared. 

He  pushed  his  chair  back  with  an  articulate  mur 
mur.  "To  you — ?" 

"To  us"  she  corrected. 

"Good  Lord !"  he  said.  If  there  had  been  the  least 

hint   of  hallucination   in   her  transparent   gaze — but 

r '  •  • 

/no:  it  was  as  clear,  as  shallow,  as  easily  fathomable 
/  as  when  he  had  first  suffered  the  sharp  surprise  of 
striking  bottom  in  it. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  perhaps  she  was  trying  to 
be  funny :  he  knew  that  there  is  nothing  more  cryptic 
than  the  humour  of  the  unhumourous. 

"Is  it  a  joke?"  he  faltered. 

"Oh,  I  hope  not.  I  want  it  so  much  to  be  a 
reality — " 

He  paused  to  smile  at  the  limitations  of  a  world 
in  which  jokes  were  not  realities,  and  continued 
gently:  "But  since  it  is  one  already — " 
•  "To  us,  I  mean:  to  you  and  me.  I  want — "  her 
voice  wavered,  and  her  eyes  with  it.  "I  have  always 
wanted  so  dreadfully  ...  it  has  been  such  a  dis 
appointment  ...  not  to  .  .  ." 

"I  see,"  said  Lethbury  slowly. 

But  he  had  not  seen  before.     It   seemed  curious 
now  that  he  had  never  thought  of  her  taking  it  in 
[4.1] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

that  way,  had  never  surmised  any  hidden  depths  be 
neath  her  outspread  obviousness.  He  felt  as  though 
he  had  touched  a  secret  spring  in  her  mind. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence,  moist  and  tremulous 
on  her  part,  awkward  and  slightly  irritated  on  his. 

"You've  been  lonely,  I  suppose?"  he  began.  It  was 
odd,  having  suddenly  to  reckon  with  the  stranger  who 
gazed  at  him  out  of  her  trivial  eyes. 

"At  times,"  she  said. 

"I'm  sorry/' 

"It  was  not  your  fault.  A  man  has  so  many  occu 
pations;  and  women  who  are  clever — or  very  hand 
some — I  suppose  that's  an  occupation  too.  Sometimes 
I've  felt  that  when  dinner  was  ordered  I  had  noth 
ing  to  do  till  the  next  day." 

"Oh,"  he  groaned. 

"It.  wasn't  your  fault,"  she  insisted.  "I  never  told 
you — but  when  I  chose  that  rose-bud  paper  for  the 
front  room  upstairs,  I  always  thought — " 

"Well—?" 

"It  would  be  such  a  pretty  paper — for  a  baby — 
to  wake  up  in.  That  was  years  ago,  of  course;  but  it 
was  rather  an  expensive  paper  .  .  .  and  it  hasn't 
faded  in  the  least  .  .  ."  she  broke  off  incoherently. 

"It  hasn't  faded?" 

"No — and  so  I  thought  ...  as  we  don't  use  the 
room  for  anything  .  .  .  now  that  Aunt  Sophronia  is 
[42] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

dead  ...  I  thought  I  might  .  .  .  you  might  .  .  . 
oh,  Julian,  if  you  could  only  have  seen  it  just  wak 
ing  up  in  its  crib !" 

"Seen  what — where?  You  haven't  got  a  baby  up 
stairs?" 

"Oh,  no — not  yet/'  she  said,  with  her  rare  laugh 
— the  girlish  bubbling  of  merriment  that  had  seemed 
one  of  her  chief  graces  in  the  early  days.  It  occurred 
to  him  that  he  had  not  given  her  enough  things  to 
laugh  about  lately.  But  then  she  needed  such  very 
elementary  things:  she  was  as  difficult  to  amuse  as 
a  savage.  He  concluded  that  he  was  not  sufficiently 
simple. 

"Alice,"  he  said  almost  solemnly,  "what  do  you 
mean?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment:  he  saw  her  gather  her 
courage  for  a  supreme  effort.  Then  she  said  slowly, 
gravely,  as  though  she  were  pronouncing  a  sacra 
mental  phrase: 

"I'm  so  lonely  without  a  little  child — and  I  thought 
perhaps  you'd  let  me  adopt  one.  .  .  .  It's  at  the  hos 
pital  ...  its  mother  is  dead  .  .  .  and  I  could  .  .  . 
pet  it,  and  dress  it,  and  do  things  for  it  ...  and 
it's  such  a  good  baby  .  .  .  you  can  ask  any  of  the 
nurses  ...  it  would  never,  never  bother  you  by  cry 
ing  .  .  ." 

[43] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 


I  ETHBURY  accompanied  his  wife  to  the  hos- 
•*"'  pital  in  a  mood  of  chastened  wonder.  It  did  not 
occur  to  him  to  oppose  her  wish.  He  knew,  of  course, 
that  he  would  have  to  bear  the  brunt  of  the  situa 
tion:  the  jokes  at  the  club,  the  enquiries,  the  expla 
nations.  He  saw  himself  in  the  comic  role  of  the 
adopted  father  and  welcomed  it  as  an  expiation.  For 

/  in  his  rapid  reconstruction  of  the  past  he  found  him 
self  cutting  a  shabbier  figure  than  he  cared  to  ad- 

V  mit.  He  had  always  been  intolerant  of  stupid  people, 
d_itjwas  his  punishment  to  be  convicted  of  stupidity. 
As  his  mind  traversed  the  years  between  his  mar 
riage  and  this  unexpected  assumption  of  paternity, 
he  saw,  in  the  light  of  an  overheated  imagination, 
many  signs  of  unwonted  crassness.  It  was  not  that  he 
had  ceased  to  think  his  wife  stupid:  she  rvas  stupid, 
limited,  inflexible;  but  there  was  a  pathos  in  the 
struggles  of  her  swaddled  mind,  in  its  blind  reach- 
ings  toward  the  primal  emotions.  He  had  always 
thought  she  would  have  been  happier  with  a  child; 
but  he  had  thought  it  mechanically,  because  it  had  so 
often  been  thought  before,  because  it  was  in  the  nat 
ure  of  things  to  think  it  of  every  woman,  because 
his  wife  was  so  eminently  one  of  a  species  that  she 
fitted  into  all  the  generalisations  of  the  sex.  But  lit; 
[44] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

had  regarded  this  generalisation  as  merely  typical  of 
the  triumph  of  tradition  over  experience.  Maternity 
was  no  doubt  the  supreme  function  of  primitive 
woman,  the  one  end  to  which  her  whole  organism 
tended;  but  the  law  of  increasing  complexity  had 
operated  in  both  sexes,  and  he  had  not  seriously  sup 
posed  that,  outside  the  world  of  Christmas  fiction 
and  anecdotic  art,  such  truisms  had  any  special  hold 
on  the  feminine  imagination.  Now  he  saw  that  the 
arts  in  question  were  kept  alive  by  the  vitality  of  the 
sentiments  they  appealed  to. 

Lethbury  was  in  fact  going  through  a  rapid 
process  of  readjustment.  His  marriage  had  been  a 
failure,  but  he  had  preserved  toward  his  wife  the 
exact  fidelity  of  act  that  is  sometimes  supposed  to 
excuse  any  divagation  of  feeling;  so  that,  for  years, 
the  tie  between  them  had  consisted  mainly  in  his  ab- 
/  staining  from  making  love  to  other  women.  The 
abstention  had  not  always  been  easy,  for  the  world 
is  surprisingly  well-stocked  with  the  kind  of  woman 
one  ought  to  have  married  but  did  not;  and  Leth 
bury  had  not  escaped  the  solicitation  of  such  alterna 
tives.  His  immunity  had  been  purchased  at  the  cost 
of  taking  refuge  in  the  somewhat  rarefied  atmosphere 
of  his  perceptions;  and  his  world  being  thus  limited, 
he  had  given  unusual  care  to  its  details,  compensating 
himself  for  the  narrowness  of  his  horizon  by  the 
[451 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

minute  finish  of  his  foreground.  It  was  a  world  of 
fine  shadings  and  the  nicest  proportions,  where  im 
pulse  seldom  set  a  blundering  foot,  and  the  feast  of 
reason  was  undisturbed  by  an  intemperate  flow  of 
soul.  To  such  a  banquet  his  wife  naturally  remained 
uninvited.  The  diet  would  have  disagreed  with  her., 
and  she  would  probably  have  objected  to  the  other 
guests.  But  Lethbury,  miscalculating  her  needs,  had 
hitherto  supposed  that  he  had  made  ample  provision 
for  them,  and  was  consequently  at  liberty  to  enjoy 
his  own  fare  without  any  reproach  of  mendicancy  at 
his  gates.  Now  he  beheld  her  pressing  a  starved 
face  against  the  windows  of  his  life,  and  in  his  im 
aginative  reaction  he  invested  her  with  a  pathos  bor 
rowed  from  the  sense  of  his  own  shortcomings. 

In  the  hospital  the  imaginative  process  continued 
with  increasing  force.  He  looked  at  his  wife  with 
new  eyes.  Formerly  she  had  been  to  him  a  mere  bun 
dle  of  negations,  a  labyrinth  of  dead  walls  and  bolted 
doors.  There  was  nothing  behind  the  walls,  and  the 
doors  led  no  whither:  he  had  sounded  and  listened 
often  enough  to  be  sure  of  that.  Now  he  felt  like  a 
traveller  who,  exploring  some  ancient  ruin,  comes  on 
an  inner  cell,  intact  amid  the  general  dilapidation, 
and  painted  with  images  which  reveal  the  forgotten 
uses  of  the  building. 

His  wife  stood  by  a  white  crib  in  one  of  the  wards. 
[46] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

In  the  crib  lay  a  child,  a  year  old,  the  nurse  affirmed, 
but  to  Lethbury's  eye  a  mere  dateless  fragment  of 
humanity  projected  against  a  background  of  con 
jecture.  Over  this  anonymous  particle  of  life  Mrs.  < 
Lethbury  leaned,"  such  ecstasy  reflected  in  her  face  i 
as  strikes  up,  in  Correggio's  Night-piece,  from  the 
child's  body  to  the  mother's  countenance.  It  was  a 
light  that  irradiated  and  dazzled  her.  She  looked  up 
at  an  enquiry  of  Lethbury's,  but  as  their  glances  met 
he  perceived  that  she  no  longer  saw  him,  that  he 
had  become  as  invisible  to  her  as  she  had  long  been 
to  him.  He  had  to  transfer  his  question  to  the  nurse. 

"What  is  the  child's  name?"  he  asked. 

"We  call  her  Jane,"  said  the  nurse. 

Ill 

T  ETHBURY,  at  first,  had  resisted  the  idea  of  a 
••— ^  legal  adoption;  but  when  he  found  that  his 
wife  could  not  be  brought  to  regard  the  child  as  hers 
till  it  had  been  made  so  by  process  of  law,  he  promptly 
withdrew  his  objection.  On  one  point  only  he 
remained  inflexible ;  and  that  was  the  changing  of  the 
waif's  name.  Mrs.  Lethbury,  almost  at  once,  had 
expressed  a  wish  to  rechristen  it:  she  fluctuated 
between  ^urje^and  Gladyj,  deferring  the  moment  of 
•  decision  like  a  lady  wavering  between  two  bonnets. 

[47] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

But  Lethbury  was  unyielding.     In  the  general  sur 
render  of  his  prejudices  this  one  alone  held  out. 

"But  Jane  is  so  dreadful,"  Mrs.  Lethbury  pro 
tested. 

"Well,  we  don't  know  that  she  won't  be  dreadful. 
She  may  grow  up  a  Jane." 

His  wife  exclaimed  reproachfully.  "The  nurse  says 
she's  the  loveliest — " 

"Don't  they  always  say  that?"  asked  Lethbury  pa 
tiently.  He  was  prepared  to  be  inexhaustibly  patient 
now  that  he  had  reached  a  firm  foothold  of  opposi 
tion. 

"It's  cruel  to  call  her  Jane,"  Mrs.  Lethbury 
pleaded. 

"It's  ridiculous  to  call  her  Muriel." 

"The  nurse  is  sure  she  must  be  a  lady's  child." 

Lethbury  winced:  he  had  tried,  all  along,  to  keep 
his  mind  off  the  question  of  antecedents. 

"Well,  let  her  prove  it,"  he  said,  with  a  rising  sense 
of  exasperation.  He  wondered  how  he  could  ever  have 
allowed  himself  to  be  drawn  into  such  a  ridiculous 
business ;  for  the  first  time  he  felt  the  full  irony  of  it. 
He  had  visions  of  coming  home  in  the  afternoon  to 
a  house  smelling  of  linseed  and  paregoric,  and  of  be 
ing  greeted  by  a  chronic  howl  as  he  went  up  stairs 
to  dress  for  dinner.  He  had  never  been  a  club-man, 
but  he  saw  himself  becoming  one  now. 
[48] 


T 


^  ^^    MISSION    OF    JANE 

The  worst  of  his  anticipations  were  unfulfilled. 
The  baby  was  surprisingly  well  and  surprisingly 
quiet^  Such  infantile  remedies  as  she  absorbed  were 
not  potent  enough  to  be  perceived  beyond  the  nursery ; 

/and  when  Lethbury  could  be  induced  to  enter  that 
sanctuary,  there  was  nothing  to  jar  his  nerves  in  the 
mild  pink  presence  of  his  adopted  daughter.  Jars 
there  were,  indeed:  they  were  probably  inevitable  in 
the  disturbed  routine  of  the  household;  but  they 
occurred  between  Mrs.  Lethbury  and  the  nurses, 
and  Jane  contributed  to  them  only  a  placid  stare 
which  might  have  served  as  a  rebuke  to  the  com 
batants. 

— In  the  reaction  from  his  first  impulse  of  atone 
ment,  Lethbury  noted  with  sharpened  perceptions  the 
effect  of  the  change  on  his  wife's  character.  He  saw 
already  the  error  of  supposing  that  it  could  work 
any  transformation  in  her.  It  simply  magnified  her 
existing  qualities.  She  was  like  a  dried  sponge  put  in 
water:  she  expanded,  but  she  did  not  change  her 
shape.  From  the  stand-point  of  scientific  observation 
it  was  curious  to  see  how  her  stored  instincts  re 
sponded  to  the  pseudo-maternal  call.  She  overflowed 
with  the  petty  maxims  of  the  occasion.  One  felt  in 
her  the  epitome,  the  consummation,  of  centuries  of 

i  animal    maternity,    so    that   this    little    woman,    who 

screamed  at  a  mouse  and  was  nervous  about  burglars, 

[49] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

came  to  typify  the  cave-mother  rending  her  prey  for 
her  young. 

It  was  less  easy  to  regard  philosophically  the  prac 
tical  effects  of  her  borrowed  motherhood.  Lethbury 
found  with  surprise  that  she  was  becoming  assertive 
and  definite.  She  no  longer  represented  the  negative 
side  of  his  life;  she  showed,  indeed,  a  tendency  to 
inconvenient  affirmations.  She  had  gradually  expanded 
her  assumption  of  motherhood  till  it  included  his  own 
share  in  the  relation,  and  he  suddenly  found  himself 
regarded  as  the  father  of  Jane.  This  was  a  contin 
gency  he  had  not  foreseen,  and  it  took  all  his  philoso 
phy  to  accept  it;  but  there  were  moments  of  compen 
sation.  For  Mrs.  Lethbury  was  undoubtedly  happy  for 
the  first  time  in  years;  and  the  thought  that  he  had 
tardily  contributed  to  this  end  reconciled  him  to  the 
irony  of  the  means. 

At  first  he  was  inclined  to  reproach  himself  for 
still  viewing  the  situation  from  the  outside,  for  re 
maining  a  spectator  instead  of  a  participant.  He  had 
been  allured,  for  a  moment,  by  the  vision  of  severed 
hands  meeting  over  a  cradle,  as  the  whole  body  of 
domestic  fiction  bears  witness  to  their  doing;  and  the 
fact  that  no  such  conjunction  took  place  he  could 
explain  only  on  the  ground  that  it  was  a  borrowed 
cradle.  He  did  not  dislike  the  little  girl.  She  still 
remained  to  him  a  hypothetical  presence,  a  query 
[50] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

rather  than  a  fact ;  "but  her  nearness  was  not  unpleas 
ant,  and  there  were  moments  when  her  tentative 
utterances,  her  groping  steps,  seemed  to  loosen  the 
dry  accretions  enveloping  his  inner  self.  But  even  at 
such  moments — moments  which  he  invited  and  ca 
ressed — she  did  not  bring  him  nearer  to  his  wife.  He 
now  perceived  that  he  had  made  a  certain  place  in 
his  life  for  Mrs.  Lethbury,  and  that  she  no  longer 
fitted  into  it.  It  was  too  late  to  enlarge  the  space,  and 
so  she  overflowed  and  encroached.  Lethbury  strug 
gled  against  the  sense  of  submergence.  He  let  down 
barrier  after  barrier,  yielding  privacy  after  privacy; 
but  his  wife's  personality  continued  to  dilate.  She  was 
no  longer  herself  alone:  she  was  herself  and  Jane. 
Gradually,  in  a  monstrous  fusion  of  identity,  she  be 
came  herself,  himself  and  Jane;  and  instead  of  try 
ing  to  adapt  her  to  a  spare  crevice  of  his  character, 
he  found  himself  carelessly  squeezed  into  the  small 
est  compartment  of  the  domestic  economy. 


IV 


T  T  E  continued  to  tell  himself  that  he  was  satis- 
•*•  -*•  fied  if  his  wife  was  happy;  and  it  was  not  till 
the  child's  tenth  year  that  he  felt  a  doubt  of  her  hap 
piness. 

Jane  had  been  a  preternaturally  good  child.  Dur- 
[51] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

ing  the  eight  years  of  her  adoption  she  had  caused 
her  foster-parents  no  anxiety  beyond  those  connected 
with  the  usual  succession  of  youthful  diseases.  But 
her  unknown  progenitors  had  given  her  a  robust  con 
stitution,  and  she  passed  unperturbed  through  mea 
sles,  chicken-pox  and  whooping-cough.  If  there  was 
any  suffering  it  was  endured  vicariously  by  Mrs. 
Lethbury,  whose  temperature  rose  and  fell  with  the 
patient's,  and  who  could  not  hear  Jane  sneeze  with 
out  visions  of  a  marble  angel  weeping  over  a  broken 
column.  But  though  Jane's  prompt  recoveries  contin 
ued  to  belie  such  premonitions,  though  her  existence 
continued  to  move  forward  on  an  even  keel  of  good 
health  and  good  conduct,  Mrs.  Lethbury's  satisfac 
tion  showed  no  corresponding  advance.  Lethbury,  at 
first,  was  disposed  to  add  her  disappointment  to  the 
long  list  of  feminine  inconsistencies  with  which  the 
sententious  observer  of  life  builds  up  his  favourable 
induction ;  but  circumstances  presently  led  him  to  take 
a  kindlier  view  of  the  case. 

Hitherto  his  wife  had  regarded  him  as  a  negligible 
factor  in  Jane's  evolution.  Beyond  providing  for  his 
adopted  daughter,  and  effacing  himself  before  her,  he 
was  not  expected  to  contribute  to  her  well-being.  But 
as  time  passed  he  appeared  to  his  wife  in  a  new 
light.  It  was  he  who  was  to  educate  Jane.  In  mat 
ters  of  the  intellect,  Mrs.  Lethbury  was  the  first  to 
[52] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

declare  her  deficiencies — to  proclaim  them,  even,  with 
a  certain  virtuous  superiority.  She  said  she  did  not 
pretend  to  be  clever,  and  there  was  no  denying  the 
truth  of  the  assertion.  Now,  however,  she  seemed  less 
ready,  not  to  own  her  limitations,  but  to  glory  in  them. 
Confronted  with  the  problem  of  Jane's  instruction 
she  stood  in  awe  of  the  child. 

"I  have  always  been  stupid,  you  know,"  she  said 
to  Lethbury  with  a  new  humility,  "and  I'm  afraid  I 
sha'n't  know  what  is  best  for  Jane.  I'm  sure  she  has 
a  wonderfully  good  mind,  and  I  should  reproach  my 
self  if  I  didn't  give  her  every  opportunity."  She 
looked  at  him  helplessly.  "You  must  tell  me  what 
ought  to  be  done." 

Lethbury  was  not  unwilling  to  oblige  her.  Some 
where  in  his  mental  lumber-room  there  rusted  a 
theory  of  education  such  as  usually  lingers  among 
the  impedimenta  of  the  childless.  He  brought  this 
out,  refurbished  it,  and  applied  it  to  Jane.  At  first 
he  thought  his  wife  had  not  overrated  the  quality  of 
the  child's  mind.  Jane  seemed  extraordinarily  intel 
ligent.  Her  precocious  definiteness  of  mind  was  en 
couraging  to  her  inexperienced  preceptor.  She  had  no 
difficulty  in  fixing  her  attention,  and  he  felt  that  every 
fact  he  imparted  was  being  etched  in  metal.  He 
helped  his  wife  to  engage  the  best  teachers,  and  for 
a  while  continued  to  take  an  ex-official  interest  in  his 
[53] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

adopted  daughter's  studies.  But  gradually  his  inter 
est  waned.  Jane's  ideas  did  not  increase  with  her  ac 
quisitions.  Her  young  mind  remained  a  mere  receptacle 
for  facts:  a  kind  of  cold-storage  from  which  any 
thing  which  had  been  put  there  could  be  taken  out  at 
a  moment's  notice,  intact  but  congealed.  She  devel 
oped,  moreover,  an  inordinate  pride  in  the  capacity 
of  her  mental  storehouse,  and  a  tendency  to  pelt  her 
public  with  its  contents.  She  was  overheard  to  jeer 
at  her  nurse  for  not  knowing  when  the  Saxon  Hep 
tarchy  had  fallen,  and  she  alternately  dazzled  and 
depressed  Mrs.  Lethbury  by  the  wealth  of  her  chrono 
logical  allusions.  She  showed  no  interest  in  the  sig 
nificance  of  the  facts  she  amassed:  she  simply  col 
lected  dates  as  another  child  might  have  collected 
stamps  or  marbles.  To  her  foster-mother  she  seemed 
a  prodigy  of  wisdom ;  but  Lethbury  saw,  with  a  secret 
movement  of  sympathy,  how  the  aptitudes  in  which 
Mrs.  Lethbury  gloried  were  slowly  estranging  her 
from  her  child. 

"She  is  getting  too  clever  for  me,"  his  wife  said  to 
him,  after  one  of  Jane's  historical  flights,  "but  I  am 
so  glad  that  she  will  be  a  companion  to  you." 

Lethbury  groaned  in  spirit.  He  did  not  look  for 
ward  to  Jane's  companionship.  She  was  still  a  good 
little  girl:  but  there  was  something  automatic  and 
formal  in  her  goodness,  as  though  it  were  a  kind  of 
[54] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

moral  calisthenics  which  she  went  through  for  the  sake 
of  showing  her  agility.  An  early  consciousness  of 
virtue  had  moreover  constituted  her  the  natural  guar 
dian  and  adviser  of  her  elders.  Before  she  was  fifteen 
she  had  set  about  reforming  the  household.  She  took 
Mrs.  Lethbury  in  hand  first;  then  she  extended  her 
efforts  to  the  servants,  with  consequences  more  dis 
astrous  to  the  domestic  harmony;  and  lastly  she  ap 
plied  herself  to  Lethbury.  She  proved  to  him  by  sta 
tistics  that  he  smoked  too  much,  and  that  it  was 
injurious  to  the  optic  nerve  to  read  in  bed.  She  took 
him  to  task  for  not  going  to  church  more  regularly, 
and  pointed  out  to  him  the  evils  of  desultory  reading. 
She  suggested  that  a  regular  course  of  study  encour 
ages  mental  concentration,  and  hinted  that  inconsecu- 
tiveness  of  thought  is  a  sign  of  approaching  age. 

To  her  adopted  mother  her  suggestions  were 
equally  pertinent.  She  instructed  Mrs.  Lethbury  in 
an  improved  way  of  making  beef  stock,  and  called 
her  attention  to  the  unhygienic  qualities  of  carpets. 
She  poured  out  distracting  facts  about  bacilli  and 
vegetable  mould,  and  demonstrated  that  curtains  and 
picture-frames  are  a  hot-bed  of  animal  organisms. 
She  learned  by  heart  the  nutritive  ingredients  of  the 
principal  articles  of  diet,  and  revolutionised  the 
cuisine  by  an  attempt  to  establish  a  scientific  average 
between  starch  and  phosphates.  Four  cooks  left  dur- 
[55] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

ing  this  experiment,  and  Lethbury  fell  into  the  habit 
of  dining  at  his  club. 

Once  or  twice,  at  the  outset,  he  had  tried  to  check 
Jane's  ardour;  but  his  efforts  resulted  only  in  hurt 
ing  his  wife's  feelings.  Jane  remained  impervious, 
and  Mrs.  Lethbury  resented  any  attempt  to  protect 
her  from  her  daughter.  Lethbury  saw  that  she  was 
consoled  for  the  sense  of  her  own  inferiority  by  the 
thought  of  what  Jane's  intellectual  companionship 
must  be  to  him;  and  he  tried  to  keep  up  the  illusion 
by  enduring  with  what  grace  he  might  the  blighting 
edification  of  Jane's  discourse. 


A  S  Jane  grew  up  he  sometimes  avenged  himself 
•**•  by  wondering  if  his  wife  was  still  sorry  that 
they  had  not  called  her  Muriel.  Jane  was  not  ugly; 
she  developed,  indeed,  a  kind  of  categorical  pretti- 
ness  which  might  have  been  a  projection  of  her  mind. 
She  had  a  creditable  collection  of  features,  but  one 
had  to  take  an  inventory  of  them  to  find  out  that  she 
was  good-looking.  The  fusing  grace  had  been  omitted. 
Mrs.  Lethbury  took  a  touching  pride  in  her  daugh 
ter's  first  steps  in  the  world.  She  expected  Jane  to 
take  by  her  complexion  those  whom  she  did  not  cap 
ture  by  her  learning.  But  Jane's  rosy  freshness  did  not 
[56] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

work  any  perceptible  ravages.  -  Whether  the  young 
men  guessed  the  axioms  on  her  lips  and  detected  the 
encyclopaedia  in  her  eye,  or  whether  they  simply  found 
no  intrinsic  interest  in  these  features,  certain  it  is, 
that,  in  spite  of  her  mother's  heroic  efforts,  and  of 
incessant  calls  on  Lethbury's  purse,  Jane,  at  the  end 
of  her  first  season,  had  dropped  hopelessly  out  of  the 
running.  A  few  duller  girls  found  her  interesting, 
and  one  or  two  young  men  came  to  the  house  with 
the  object  of  meeting  other  young  women;  but  she 
was  rapidly  becoming  one  of  the  social  supernumer 
aries  who  are  asked  out  only  because  they  are  on  peo 
ple's  lists. 

The  blow  was  bitter  to  Mrs.  Lethbury ;  but  she  con 
soled  herself  with  the  idea  that  Jane  had  failed  be 
cause  she  was  too  clever.  Jane  probably  shared  this 
conviction;  at  all  events  she  betrayed  no  conscious 
ness  of  failure.  She  had  developed  a  pronounced  taste 
for  society,  and  went  out,  unweariedly  and  obsti 
nately,  winter  after  winter,  while  Mrs.  Lethbury 
toiled  in  her  wake,  showering  attentions  on  oblivious 
hostesses.  To  Lethbury  there  was  something  at  once 
tragic  and  exasperating  in  the  sight  of  their  two  fig 
ures,  the  one  conciliatory,  the  other  dogged,  both  pur 
suing  with  unabated  zeal  the  elusive  prize  of  popu 
larity.  He  even  began  to  feel  a  personal  stake  in  the 
pursuit,  not  as  it  concerned  Jane  but  as  it  affected 
[57] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

his  wife.  He  saw  that  the  latter  was  the  victim  of 
Jane's  disappointment:  that  Jane  was  not  above  the 
crude  satisfaction  of  "taking  it  out"  of  her  mother. 
Experience  checked  the  impulse  to  come  to  his  wife's 
defence;  and  when  his  resentment  was  at  its  height, 
Jane  disarmed  him  by  giving  up  the  struggle. 

Nothing  was  said  to  mark  her  capitulation;  but 
Lethbury  noticed  that  the  visiting  ceased  and  that 
the  dressmaker's  bills  diminished.  At  the  same  time 
Mrs.  Lethbury  made  it  known  that  Jane  had  taken 
up  charities ;  and  before  long  Jane's  conversation  con 
firmed  this  announcement.  At  first  Lethbury  congratu 
lated  himself  on  the  change;  but  Jane's  domesticity 
soon  began  to  weigh  on  him.  During  the  day  she 
was  sometimes  absent  on  errands  of  mercy;  but  in  the 
evening  she  was  always  there.  At  first  she  and  Mrs. 
Lethbury  sat  in  the  drawing-room  together,  and 
Lethbury  smoked  in  the  library;  but  presently  Jane 
formed  the  habit  of  joining  him  there,  and  he  began 
to  suspect  that  he  was  included  among  the  objects  of 
her  philanthropy. 

Mrs.  Lethbury  confirmed  the  suspicion.  "Jane  has 
grown  very  serious-minded  lately,"  she  said.  "She  im 
agines  that  she  used  to  neglect  you  and  she  is  trying 
to  make  up  for  it.  Don't  discourage  her,"  she  added  in 
nocently. 

Such  a  plea  delivered  Lethbury  helpless  to  his 
F581 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

daughter's  ministrations;  and  he  found  himself  meas 
uring  the  hours  he  spent  with  her  by  the  amount  of 
relief  they  must  be  affording  her  mother.  There  were 
even  moments  when  he  read  a  furtive  gratitude  in 
Mrs.  Lethbury's  eye. 

But  Lethbury  was  no  hero,  and  he  had  nearly 
reached  the  limit  of  vicarious  endurance  when  some 
thing  wonderful  happened.  They  never  quite  knew 
afterward  how  it  had  come  about,  or  who  first  per 
ceived  it;  but  Mrs.  Lethbury  one  day  gave  tremulous 
voice  to  their  discovery. 

"Of  course,"  she  said,  "he  comes  here  because  of 
Elise."  The  young  lady  in  question,  a  friend  of 
Jane's,  was  possessed  of  attractions  which  had  already 
been  found  to  explain  the  presence  of  masculine  vis 
itors. 

Lethbury  risked  a  denial.  "I  don't  think  he  does/' 
he  declared. 

"But  Elise  is  thought  very  pretty,"  Mrs.  Lethbury 
insisted. 

"I  can't  help  that,"  said  Lethbury  doggedly. 

He  saw  a  faint  light  in  his  wife's  eyes;  but  she 
remarked  carelessly:  "Mr.  Budd  would  be  a  very 
good  match  for  Elise." 

Lethbury  could  hardly  repress  a  chuckle:  he  was 
so  exquisitely  aware  that  she  was  trying  to  propitiate 
the  gods. 

[59] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

For  a  few  weeks  neither  said  a  word;  then  Mrs. 
Lethbury  once  more  reverted  to  the  subject. 

"It  is  a  month  since  Elise  went  abroad,"  she  said. 

"Is  it?" 

"And  Mr.  Budd  seems  to  come  here  just  as 
often—" 

"Ah,"  said  Lethbury  with  heroic  indifference;  and 
his  wife  hastily  changed  the  subject. 

Mr.  Winstanley  Budd  was  a  young  man  who  suf 
fered  from  an  excess  of  manner.  Politeness  gushed 
from  him  in  the  driest  seasons.  He  was  always  per 
forming  feats  of  drawing-room  chivalry,  and  the  ap 
proach  of  the  most  unobtrusive  female  threw  him  into 
attitudes  which  endangered  the  furniture.  His  feat 
ures,  being  of  the  cherubic  order,  did  not  lend  them 
selves  to  this  role;  but  there  were  moments  when  he 
appeared  to  dominate  them,  to  force  them  into  com 
pliance  with  an  aquiline  ideal.  The  range  of  Mr. 
Budd's  social  benevolence  made  its  object  hard  to  dis 
tinguish.  He  spread  his  cloak  so  indiscriminately  that 
one  could  not  always  interpret  the  gesture,  and  Jane's 
impassive  manner  had  the  effect  of  increasing  his 
demonstrations :  she  threw  him  into  paroxysms  of  po 
liteness. 

At  first  he  filled  the  house  with  his  amenities;  but 
gradually  it  became  apparent  that  his  most  dazzling 
effects  were  directed  exclusively  to  Jane.  Lethbury 
[60] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

and  his  wife  held  their  breath  and  looked  away  from 
each  other.  They  pretended  not  to  notice  the  fre 
quency  of  Mr.  Budd's  visits,  they  struggled  against 
an  imprudent  inclination  to  leave  the  young  people 
too  much  alone.  Their  conclusions  were  the  result  of 
indirect  observation,  for  neither  of  them  dared  to  be 
caught  watching  Mr.  Budd:  they  behaved  like  nat 
uralists  on  the  trail  of  a  rare  butterfly. 

In  his  efforts  not  to  notice  Mr.  Budd,  Lethbury 
centred  his  attentions  on  Jane;  and  Jane,  at  this 
crucial  moment,  wrung  from  him  a  reluctant  admira 
tion.  While  her  parents  went  about  dissembling  their 
emotions,  she  seemed  to  have  none  to  conceal.  She  be 
trayed  neither  eagerness  nor  surprise ;  so  complete  was 
her  unconcern  that  there  were  moments  when  Leth 
bury  feared  it  was  obtuseness,  when  he  could  hardly 
help  whispering  to  her  that  now  was  the  moment  ta 
lower  the  net. 

Meanwhile  the  velocity  of  Mr.  Budd's  gyrations 
increased  with  the  ardour  of  courtship;  his  politeness 
became  incandescent,  and  Jane  found  herself  the  cen 
tre  of  a  pyrotechnical  display  culminating  in  the  "set 
piece"  of  an  offer  of  marriage. 

Mrs.  Lethbury  imparted  the  news  to  her  husband 

one  evening  after  their  daughter  had  gone  to  bed. 

The  announcement  was  made  and  received  with  an 

air  of  detachment,  as  though  both  feared  to  be  be- 

[61] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

trayed  into  unseemly  exultation;  but  Lethbury,  as  his 
wife  ended,  could  not  repress  the  inquiry,  "Have  they 
decided  on  a  day?" 

Mrs.  Lethbury's  superior  command  of  her  features 
enabled  her  to  look  shocked.  "What  can  you  be  think 
ing  of?  He  only  offered  himself  at  five!" 

"Of  course — of  course — "  stammered  Lethbury — 
"but  nowadays  people  marry  after  such  short  engage 
ments — " 

"Engagement!"  said  his  wife  solemnly.  "There  is 
no  engagement." 

Lethbury  dropped  his  cigar.  "What  on  earth  do 
you  mean?" 

"Jane  is  thinking  it  over." 

"Thinking  it  over?" 

"She  has  asked  for  a  month  before  deciding." 

Lethbury  sank  back  with  a  gasp.  Was  it  genius  or 
was  it  madness?  He  felt  incompetent  to  decide;  and 
Mrs.  Lethbury's  next  words  showed  that  she  shared 
his  difficulty. 

"Of  course  I  don't  want  to  hurry  Jane — " 

"Of  course  not,"  he  acquiesced. 

"But  I  pointed  out  to  her  that  a  young  man  of  Mr. 
Budd's  impulsive  temperament  might  —  might  be 
easily  discouraged — " 

"Yes;  and  what  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  that  if  she  was  worth  winning  she  was 
worth  waiting  for." 

[62] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 
VI 

HE  period  of  Mr.  Budd's  probation  could 
scarcely  have  cost  him  as  much  mental  anguish 
as  it  caused  his  would-be  parents-in-law. 

Mrs.  Lethbury,  by  various  ruses,  tried  to  shorten 
the  ordeal,  but  Jane  remained  inexorable;  and  each 
morning  Lethbury  came  down  to  breakfast  with  the 
certainty  of  finding  a  letter  of  withdrawal  from  her 
discouraged  suitor. 

When  at  length  the  decisive  day  came,  and  Mrs. 
Lethbury,  at  its  close,  stole  into  the  library  with  an 
air  of  chastened  joy,  they  stood  for  a  moment  with 
out  speaking;  then  Mrs.  Lethbury  paid  a  fitting 
tribute  to  the  proprieties  by  faltering  out:  "It  will  be 
dreadful  to  have  to  give  her  up — " 

Lethbury  could  not  repress  a  warning  gesture;  but 
even  as  it  escaped  him  he  realised  that  his  wife's 
grief  was  genuine. 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  he  said,  vainly  sounding 
his  own  emotional  shallows  for  an  answering  regret. 
And  yet  it  was  his  wife  who  had  suffered  most  from 
Jane! 

He  had   fancied  that  these   sufferings   would  be 

effaced  by  the  milder  atmosphere  of  their  last  weeks 

together;  but  felicity  did  not  soften  Jane.  Not  for  a 

moment    did    she    relax    her    dominion:    she    simply 

[63] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

widened  it  to  include  a  new  subject.  Mr.  Budd  found 
himself  under  orders  with  the  others ;  and  a  new  fear 
assailed  Lethbury  as  he  saw  Jane  assume  prenuptial 
control  of  her  betrothed.  Lethbury  had  never  felt  any 
strong  personal  interest  in  Mr.  Budd;  but  as  Jane's 
prospective  husband  the  young  man  excited  his  sym 
pathy.  To  his  surprise  he  found  that  Mrs.  Lethbury 
shared  the  feeling. 

"I'm  afraid  he  may  find  Jane  a  little  exacting," 
she  said,  after  an  evening  dedicated  to  a  stormy  dis 
cussion  of  the  wedding  arrangements.  "She  really 
ought  to  make  some  concessions.  If  he  wants  to  be 
married  in  a  black  frock-coat  instead  of  a  dark  gray 
one — "  She  paused  and  looked  doubtfully  at  Leth 
bury. 

"What  can  I  do  about  it?"  he  said. 

"You  might  explain  to  him — tell  him  that  Jane 

isr 

• 


isn't  always — " 


Lethbury  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "What  are 
you  afraid  of?  His  finding  her  out  or  his  not  finding 
her  out?" 

Mrs.  Lethbury  flushed.  "You  put  it  so  dreadfully !" 

Her  husband  mused  for  a  moment;  then  he  said 
with  an  air  of  cheerful  hypocrisy:  "After  all,  Budd 
is  old  enough  to  take  care  of  himself." 

But  the  next  day  Mrs.  Lethbury  surprised  him. 
Late  in  the  afternoon  she  entered  the  library,  so 
^64] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

breathless  and  inarticulate  that  he  scented  a  catas 
trophe. 

"I've  done  it!"  she  cried. 

"Done  what?" 

"Told  him."  She  nodded  toward  the  door.  "He's 
j  ust  gone.  Jane  is  out,  and  I  had  a  chance  to  talk  to 
'him  alone." 

Lethbury  pushed  a  chair  forward  and  she  sank 
intojk^---- 

"What  did  you  tell  him?  That  she  is  not  always—" 

Mrs.  Lethbury  lifted  a  tragic  eye.  "No;  I  told  him 
that  she  always  is — " 

"Always  is — ?" 

"Yes." 

There  was  a  pause.  Lethbury  made  a  call  on  his 
hoarded  philosophy.  He  saw  Jane  suddenly  rein 
stated  in  her  evening  seat  by  the  library  fire;  but  an 
answering  chord  in  him  thrilled  at  his  wife's  heroism. 

"Well— what  did  he  say?" 

Mrs.  Lethbury 's  agitation  deepened.  It  was  clear 
that  the  blow  had  fallen. 

"He  ...  he  said  .  .  .  that  we  ...  had  never 
understood  Jane  ...  or  appreciated  her  .  .  ."  The 
final  syllables  were  lost  in  her  handkerchief,  and  she 
left  him  marvelling  at  the  mechanism  of  woman. 

After  that,  Lethbury  faced  the  future  with  an  un 
daunted  eye.  They  had  done  their  duty — at  least  his 
[65] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

wife  had  done  hers-4pnd  they  were  reaping  the  usual 

Harvest  of  ingratitude  with  a  zest  seldom  accorded  to 
I 
I  such  reaping.   There  was  a  marked  change  in   Mr. 

Budd's  manner,   and  his  increasing  coldness  sent  a 
j   genial  glow  through  Lethbury's  system.  It  was  easy 
\  to  bear  with  Jane  in  the  light  of  Mr.  Budd's  dis- 
approval. 

There  was  a  good  deal  to  be  borne  in  the  last  days, 
and  the  brunt  of  it  fell  on  Mrs.  Lethbury.  Jane 
marked  her  transition  to  the  married  state  by  a  season 
able  but  incongruous  display  of  nerves.  She  became 
sentimental,  hysterical  and  reluctant.  She  quarrelled 
with  her  betrothed  and  threatened  to  return  the 
ring.  Mrs.  Lethbury  had  to  intervene,  and  Leth 
bury  felt  the  hovering  sword  of  destiny.  But  the  blow 
was  suspended.  Mr.  Budd's  chivalry  was  proof 
against  all  his  bride's  caprices  and  his  devotion 
throve  on  her  cruelty.  Lethbury  feared  that  he  was 
too  faithful,  too  enduring,  and  longed  to  urge  him 
to  vary  his  tactics.  Jane  presently  reappeared  with 
the  ring  on  her  finger,  and  consented  to  try  on  the 
wedding-dress;  but  her  uncertainties,  her  reactions, 
were  prolonged  till  the  final  day. 

When  it  dawned,  Lethbury  was  still  in  an  ecstasy 
of  apprehension.  Feeling  reasonably  sure  of  the  prin 
cipal  actors  he  had  centred  his  fears  on  incidental 
possibilities.  The  clergyman  might  have  a  stroke,  or 
[66] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

the  church  might  burn  down,  or  there  might  be  some 
thing  wrong  with  the  license.  He  did  all  that  was 
humanly  possible  to  avert  such  contingencies,  but 
there  remained  that  incalculable  factor  known  as  the 
hand  of  God.  Lethbury  seemed  to  feel  it  groping  for 
him. 

At  the  altar  it  almost  had  him  by  the  nape.  Mr. 
Budd  was  late;  and  for  five  immeasurable  minutes 
Lethbury  and  Jane  faced  a  churchful  of  conjecture. 
Then  the  bridegroom  appeared,  flushed  but  chival 
rous,  and  explaining  to  his  father-in-law  under  cover 
of  the  ritual  that  he  had  torn  his  glove  and  had  to  go 
back  for  another. 

"You'll  be  losing  the  ring  next,"  muttered  Leth 
bury  ;  but  Mr.  Budd  produced  this  article  punct 
ually,  and  a  moment  or  two  later  was  bearing  its 
wearer  captive  down  the  aisle. 

X  At  the  wedding-breakfast  Lethbury  caught  his 
wife's  eye  fixed  on  him  in  mild  disapproval,  and  un 
derstood  that  his  hilarity  was  exceeding  the  bounds 

*    of  fitness.  (He  pulled  himself  together  and  tried  to 
subdue  his  tone;  but  his  jubilation  bubbled  over  like 

I    a  champagne-glass  perpetually  refilled.   The  deeper 

LL  his ..draughts  the  higher  it  rose.   J 

It  was  at  the  brim  when,  in  the  wake  of  the  dis 
persing  guests,  Jane  came  down  in  her  travelling- 
dress  and  fell  on  her  mother's  neck. 
[67] 


THE    MISSION    OF    JANE 

"I  can't  leave  you!"  she  wailed,  and  Lethbury  felt 
as  suddenly  sobered  as  a  man  under  a  douche.  But  if 
the  bride  was  reluctant  her  captor  was  relentless. 
Never  had  Mr.  Budd  been  more  dominant,  more 
aquiline.  Lethbury's  last  fears  were  dissipated  as  the 
young  man  snatched  Jane  from  her  mother's  bosom 
and  bore  her  off  to  the  brougham. 

The  brougham  rolled  away,  the  last  milliner's  girl 
forsook  her  post  by  the  awning,  the  red  carpet  was 
folded  up,  and  the  house  door  closed.  Lethbury  stood 
alone  in  the  hall  with  his  wife.  As  he  turned  toward 
her,  he  noticed  the  look  of  tired  heroism  in  her  eyes, 
the  deepened  lines  of  her  face.  They  reflected  his 
own  symptoms  too  accurately  not  to  appeal  to  him. 
The  nervous  tension  had  been  horrible.  He  went  up 
to  her,  and  an  answering  impulse  made  her  lay  a 
hand  on  his  arm.  He  held  it  there  a  moment. 

"Let  us  go  off  and  have  a  jolly  little  dinner  at  a 
restaurant,"  he  proposed. 

There  had  been  a  time  when  such  a  suggestion 
would  have  surprised  her  to  the  verge  of  disapproval; 
but  now  she  agreed  to  it  at  once. 

.  "Oh,  that  would  be  so  nice,"  she  murmured  with  a 
great  sigh  of  relief  and  assuagement. 

Jane  had  fulfilled  her  mission  after  all:  she  had 
drawn  them  together  at  last. 

i      [68] 

, 


THE    OTHER    TWO 


THE    OTHER    TWO 
I 

WAYTHORN,  on  the  drawing-room  hearth, 
waited  for  his  wife  to  come  down  to 
dinner. 

It  was  their  first  night  under  his  own  roof,  and 
he  was  surprised  at  his  thrill  of  boyish  agitation.  He 
was  not  so  old,  to  be  sure — his  glass  gave  him  little 
more  than  the  five-and-thirty  years  to  which  his  wife 
confessed — but  he  had  fancied  himself  already  in  the 
temperate  zone ;  yet  here  he  was  listening  for  her  step 
with  a  tender  sense  of  all  it  symbolised,  with  some  old 
trail  of  verse  about  the  garlanded  nuptial  door-posts 
floating  through  his  enjoyment  of  the  pleasant  room 
and  the  good  dinner  just  beyond  it. 

They  had  been  hastily  recalled  from  their  honey 
moon  by  the  illness  of  Lily  Haskett,  the  child  of  Mrs. 
Waythorn's  first  marriage.  The  little  girl,  at  Way- 
thorn's  desire,  had  been  transferred  to  his  house  on 
the  day  of  her  mother's  wedding,  and  the  doctor,  on 
their  arrival,  broke  the  news  that  she  was  ill  with 
typhoid,  but  declared  that  all  the  symptoms  were  fa 
vourable.  Lily  could  show  twelve  years  of  unblemished 
health,  and  the  case  promised  to  be  a  light  one.  The 
nurse  spoke  as  reassuringly,  and  after  a  moment  of 
alarm  Mrs.  Waythorn  had  adjusted  herself  to  the  sit- 
[71] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

uation.  She  was  very  fond  of  Lily — her  affection  for 
the  child  had  perhaps  been  her  decisive  charm  in 
Waythorn's  eyes — but  she  had  the  perfectly  balanced 
nerves  which  her  little  girl  had  inherited,  and  no 
woman  ever  wasted  less  tissue  in  unproductive  worry. 
Waythorn-  was  therefore  quite  prepared  to  see  her 
come  in  presently,  a  little  late  because  of  a  last  look 
at  Lily,  but  as  serene  and  well-appointed  as  if  her 
good-night  kiss  had  been  laid  on  the  brow  of  health. 
Her  composure  was  restful  to  him;  it  acted  as  bal 
last  to  his  somewhat  unstable  sensibilities.  As  he  pic 
tured  her  bending  over  the  child's  bed  he  thought  how 
soothing  her  presence  must  be  in  illness :  her  very  step 
would  prognosticate  recovery. 

His  own  life  had  been  a  gray  one,  from  tempera 
ment  rather  than  circumstance,  and  he  had  been 
drawn  to  her  by  the  unperturbed  gaiety  which  kept 
her  fresh  and  elastic  at  an  age  when  most  women's 
activities  are  growing  either  slack  or  febrile.  He 
knew  what  was  said  about  her;  for,  popular  as  she 
was,  there  had  always  been  a  faint  undercurrent  of 
detraction.  When  she  had  appeared  in  New  York, 
nine  or  ten  years  earlier,  as  the  pretty  Mrs.  Haskett 
whom  Gus  Varick  had  unearthed  somewhere — was  it 
in  Pittsburg  or  Utica? — society,  while  promptly  ac 
cepting  her,  had  reserved  the  right  to  cast  a  doubt  on 
its  own  indiscrimination.  Enquiry,  however,  established 
[72] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

her  undoubted  connection  with  a  socially  reigning 
family,  and  explained  her  recent  divorce  as  the 
natural  result  of  a  runaway  match  at  seventeen;  and 
as  nothing  was  known  of  Mr.  Haskett  it  was  easy  to 
believe  the  worst  of  him. 

Alice  Haskett's  remarriage  with  Gus  Varick  was  a 
passport  to  the  set  whose  recognition  she  coveted,  and 
for  a  few  years  the  Varicks  were  the  most  popular 
couple  in  town.  Unfortunately  the  alliance  was  brief 
and  stormy,  and  this  time  the  husband  had  his  cham 
pions.  Still,  even  Varick's  stanchest  supporters  ad 
mitted  that  he  was  not  meant  for  matrimony,  and  Mrs. 
Varick's  grievances  were  of  a  nature  to  begf  the  in 
spection  of  the  New  York  courts.  A  Ne^Btork  di 
vorce  is  in  itself  a  diploma  of  virtue,  and  yi  the  semi- 
widowhood  of  this  second  separation  Mrs.*  Varick 
took  on  an  air  of  sanctity,  and  was  allowed  to  confide 
her  wrongs  to  some  of  the  most  scrupulous  ears  in 
town.  But  when  it  was  known  that  she  was  to  marry 
Waythorn  there  was  a  momentary  reaction.  Her  best 
*  friends  would  have  preferred  to  see  her  remain  in  the 
role  of  the  injured  wife,  which  was  as  becoming  to 
her  as  crape  to  a  rosy  complexion.  True,  a  decent 
time  had  elapsed,  and  it  was  not  even  suggested  that 
Waythorn  had  supplanted  his  predecessor.  People 
shook  their  heads  over  him,  however,  and  one  grudging 
friend,  to  whom  he  affirmed  that  he  took  the  step  with 
[73] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

his  eyes  open,  replied  oracularly  :  "Yes — and  with 
your  ears  shut." 

Waythorn  could  afford  to  smile  at  these  innuendoes. 
In  the  Wall  Street  phrase,  he  had  "discounted"  them. 
He  knew  that  society  has  not  yet  adapted  itself  to  the 
consequences  of  divorce,  and  that  till  the  adaptation 
takes  place  every  woman  who  uses  the  freedom  the  law 
accords  her  must  be  her  own  social  justification.  Way- 
thorn  had  an  amused  confidence  in  his  wife's  ability  to 
justify  herself.  His  expectations  were  fulfilled,  and 
before  the  wedding  took  place  Alice  Varick's  group 
had  rallied  openly  to  her  support.  She  took  it  all  im- 
perturbably:  she  had  a  way  of  surmounting  obstacles 
without  iKning  to  be  aware  of  them,  and  Waythorn 
looked  back  witli  wonder  at  the  trivialities  over  which 
he  had  worn  his  nerves  thin.  He  had  the  sense  of  hav 
ing  found  refuge  in  a  richer,  warmer  nature  than  his 
own,  and  his  satisfaction,  at  the  moment,  was  humour 
ously  summed  up  in  the  thought  that  his  wife, 
when  she  had  done  all  she  could  for  Lily,  would 
not  be  ashamed  to  come  down  and  enjoy  a  good 
dinner. 

The  anticipation  of  such  enjoyment  was  not,  how 
ever,  the  sentiment  expressed  by  Mrs.  Waythorn's 
charming  face  when  she  presently  joined  him.  Though 
she  had  put  on  her  most  engaging  teagown  she  had 
neglected  to  assume  the  smile  that  went  with  it,  and 
[74] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

Waythorn  thought  he  had  never   seen  her  look  so 
nearly  worried. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  "Is  anything  wrong  with 
Lily?" 

"No;  I've  just  been  in  and  she's  still  sleeping." 
Mrs.  Waythorn  hesitated.  "But  something  tiresome 
has  happened." 

He  had  taken  her  two  hands,  and  now  perceived 
that  he  was  crushing  a  paper  between  them. 

"This  letter?" 

"Yes — Mr.  Haskett  has  written — I  mean  his  law 
yer  has  written." 

Waythorn  felt  himself  flush  uncomfortably.  He 
dropped  his  wife's  hands. 

"What  about?" 

"About  seeing  Lily.  You  know  the  courts — " 

"Yes,  yes,"  he  interrupted  nervously. 

Nothing  was  known  about  Haskett  in  New  York. 
He  was  vaguely  supposed  to  have  remained  in  the 
outer  darkness  from  which  his  wife  had  been  rescued, 
and  Waythorn  was  one  of  the  few  who  were  aware 
that  he  had  given  up  his  business  in  Utica  and  fol 
lowed  her  to  New  York  in  order  to  be  near  his  little 
girl.  In  the  days  of  his  wooing,  Waythorn  had  often 
met  Lily  on  the  doorstep,  rosy  and  smiling,  on  her 
way  "to  see  papa." 

"I  am  so  sorry,"  Mrs.  Waythorn  murmured. 
[75] 


iiorti 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

He  roused  himself.  "What  does  he  want?" 

"He  wants  to  see  her.  You  know  she  goes  to  him 
once  a  week." 

"Well — he  doesn't  expect  her  to  go  to  him  now, 
does  he?" 

"No — he  has  heard  of  her  illness;  but  he  expects 
to  come  here." 

"Here?" 

Mrs.  Waythorn  reddened  under  his  gaze.  They 
looked  away  from  each  other. 

"I'm  afraid  he  has  the  right.  .  .  .  You'll  see.  .  .  ." 
She  made  a  proffer  of  the  letter. 

Waythorn  moved  away  with  a  gesture  of  refusal. 
He  stood  staring  about  the  softly  lighted  room,  which 
a  moment  before  had  seemed  so  full  of  bridal  in 
timacy. 

"I'm  so  sorry/'  she  repeated.  "If  Lily  could  have 
been  moved — " 

"That's  out  of  the  question,"  he  returned  impa 
tiently. 

"I  suppose  so." 

Her  lip  was  beginning  to  tremble,  and  he  felt  him 
self  a  brute. 

"He  must  come,  of  course,"  he  said.  "When  is — 
his  day?" 

"I'm  afraid — to-morrow." 

"Very  well.  Send  a  note  in  the  morning." 
[76] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

The  butler  entered  to  announce  dinner. 

Waythorn  turned  to  his  wife.  "Come — you  must  be 
tired.  It's  beastly,  but  try  to  forget  about  it,"  he  said, 
drawing  her  hand  through  his  arm. 

"You're  so  good,  dear.  I'll  try,"  she  whispered 
back. 

Her  face  cleared  at  once,  and  as  she  looked  at  him 
across  the  flowers,  between  the  rosy  candle-shades,  he 
saw  her  lips  waver  back  into  a  smile. 

"How  pretty  everything  is !"  she  sighed  luxuriously. 

He  turned  to  the  butler.  "The  champagne  at  once, 
please.  Mrs.  Waythorn  is  tired." 

In  a  moment  or  two  their  eyes  met  above  the  spark 
ling  glasses.  Her  own  were  quite  clear  and  untroubled : 
he  saw  that  she  had  obeyed  his  injunction  and  for-  I 
gotten. 

II 

WAYTHORN,    the   next   morning,    went    down 
town   earlier   than    usual.      Haskett   was   not 
likely  to  come  till  the  afternoon,  but  the  instinct  of 
flight  drove  him  forth.   He  meant  to  stay  away  all 
day — he  had  thoughts  of  dining  at  his  club.  As  his 
door  closed  behind  him  he  reflected  that  before  he 
opened  it  again  it  would  have  admitted  another  man 
who  had  as  much  right  to  enter  it  as  himself,  and  the 
thought  filled  him  with  a  physical  repugnance. 
[77] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

He  caught  the  "elevated"  at  the  employes'  hour, 
and  found  himself  crushed  between  two  layers  of  pen 
dulous  humanity.  At  Eighth  Street  the  man  facing 
him  wriggled  out,  and  another  took  his  place.  Way- 
thorn  glanced  up  and  saw  that  it  was  Gus  Varick. 
The  men  were  so  close  together  that  it  was  impos 
sible  to  ignore  the  smile  of  recognition  on  Varick's 
handsome  overblown  face.  And  after  all — why  not? 
They  had  always  been  on  good  terms,  and  Varick 
had  been  divorced  before  Waythorn's  attentions  to  his 
wife  began.  The  two  exchanged  a  word  on  the  per 
ennial  grievance  of  the  congested  trains,  and  when  a 
seat  at  their  side  was  miraculously  left  empty  the  in 
stinct  of  self-preservation  made  Waythorn  slip  into 
it  after  Varick. 

The  latter  drew  the  stout  man's  breath  of  relief. 
"Lord-^I  was  beginning  to  feel  like  a  pressed  flow 
er."  He  leaned  back,  looking  unconcernedly  at  Way- 
thorn.  "Sorry  to  hear  that  Sellers  is  knocked  out 
again." 

"Sellers?"  echoed  Waythorn,  starting  at  his  part 
ner's  name. 

Varick  looked  surprised.  "You  didn't  know  he  was 
laid  up  with  the  gout?" 

"No.  I've  been  away — I  only  got  back  last  night." 
Waythorn  felt  himself  reddening  in  anticipation  of 
the  other's  smile. 

[78] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

"Ah — yes ;  to  be  sure.  And  Sellers's  attack  came  on 
two  days  ago.  I'm  afraid  he's  pretty  bad.  Very 
awkward  for  me,  as  it  happens,  because  he  was 
just  putting  through  a  rather  important  thing  for 
me." 

"Ah?"  Waythorn  wondered  vaguely  since  when 
Varick  had  been  dealing  in  "important  things." 
Hitherto  he  had  dabbled  only  in  the  shallow  pools 
of  speculation,  with  which  Waythorn's  office  did  not 
usually  concern  itself. 

It  occurred  to  him  that  Varick  might  be  talking  at 
random,  to  relieve  the  strain  of  their  propinquity. 
That  strain  was  becoming  momentarily  more  apparent 
to  Waythorn,  and  when,  at  Cortlandt  Street,  he 
caught  sight  of  an  acquaintance  and  had  a  sudden 
vision  of  the  picture  he  and  Varick  must  present  to 
an  initiated  eye,  he  jumped  up  with  a  muttered  ex 
cuse. 

"I  hope  you'll  find  Sellers  better,"  said  Varick  civ 
illy,  and  he  stammered  back:  "If  I  can  be  of  any  use 
to  you — "  and  let  the  departing  crowd  sweep  him  to 
the  platform. 

At  his  office  he  heard  that  Sellers  was  in  fact  ill 
with  the  gout,  and  would  probably  not  be  able  to 
leave  the  house  for  some  weeks. 

"I'm  sorry  it  should  have  happened  so,  Mr.  Way- 
thorn,"  the  senior  clerk  said  with  affable  significance. 
[79] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

"Mr.  Sellers  was  very  much  upset  at  the  idea  of  giv 
ing  you  such  a  lot  of  extra  work  just  now." 

"Oh,  that's  no  matter,"  said  Waythorn  hastily.  He 
secretly  welcomed  the  pressure  of  additional  business, 
and  was  glad  to  think  that,  when  the  day's  work  was 
over,  he  would  have  to  call  at  his  partner's  on  the  way 
home. 

He  was  late  for  luncheon,  and  turned  in  at  the  near 
est  resturant  instead  of  going  to  his  club.  The  place 
was  full,  and  the  waiter  hurried  him  to  the  back  of 
the  room  to  capture  the  only  vacant  table.  In  the 
cloud  of  cigar-smoke  Waythorn  did  not  at  once  dis 
tinguish  his  neighbours;  but  presently,  looking  about 
him,  he  saw  Varick  seated  a  few  feet  off.  This  time, 
luckily,  they  were  too  far  apart  for  conversation,  and 
Varick,  who  faced  another  way,  had  probably  not 
even  §een  him;  but  there  was  an  irony  in  their  re 
newed  nearness. 

Varick  was  said  to  be  fond  of  good  living,  and  as 
Waythorn  sat  despatching  his  hurried  luncheon  he 
looked  across  half  enviously  at  the  other's  leisurely 
degustation  of  his  meal.  When  Waythorn  first  saw 
him  he  had  been  helping  himself  with  critical  de 
liberation  to  a  bit  of  Camembert  at  the  ideal  point  of 
liquefaction,  and  now,  the  cheese  removed,  he  was  just 
pouring  his  cafe  double  from  its  little  two-storied 
earthen  pot.  He  poured  slowly,  his  ruddy  profile  bent 
[80] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

above  the  task,  and  one  beringed  white  hand  steadying 
the  lid  of  the  coffee-pot;  then  he  stretched  his  other 
hand  to  the  decanter  of  cognac  at  his  elbow,  filled 
a  liqueur-glass,  took  a  tentative  sip,  and  poured  the 
brandy  into  his  coffee-cup. 

Waythorn  watched  him  in  a  kind  of  fascination. 
What  was  he  thinking  of — only  of  the  flavour  of  the 
coffee  and  the  liqueur?  Had  the  morning's  meeting 
left  no  more  trace  in  his  thoughts  than  on  his  face? 
Had  his  wife  so  completely  passed  out  of  his  life  that 
even  this  odd  encounter  with  her  present  husband, 
within  a  week  after  her  remarriage,  was  no  more  than 
an  incident  in  his  day?  And  as  Waythorn  mused,  an 
other  idea  struck  him:  had  Haskett  ever  met  Varick 
as  Varick  and  he  had  just  met?  The  recollection  of 
Haskett  perturbed  him,  and  he  rose  and  left  the  res 
taurant,  taking  a  circuitous  way  out  to  escape  the 
placid  irony  of  Varick's  nod. 

It  was  after  seven  when  Waythorn  reached  home. 
He  thought  the  footman  who  opened  the  door  looked 
at  him  oddly. 

"How  is  Miss  Lily?"  he  asked  in  haste. 

"Doing  very  well,  sir.    A  gentleman — " 

"Tell  Barlow  to  put  off  dinner  for  half  an  hour," 
[Waythorn  cut  him  off,  hurrying  upstairs. 

He  went  straight  to  his  room  and  dressed  without 
seeing  his  wife.  When  he  reached  the  drawing-room 
[81] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

she  was  there,  fresh  and  radiant.  Lily's  day  had  been 
good;  the  doctor  was  not  coming  back  that  evening. 

At  dinner  Waythorn  told  her  of  Sellers's  illness 
and  of  the  resulting  complications.  She  listened  sym 
pathetically,  adjuring  him  not  to  let  himself  be  over 
worked,  and  asking  vague  feminine  questions  about 
the  routine  of  the  office.  Then  she  gave  him  the  chron 
icle  of  Lily's  day;  quoted  the  nurse  and  doctor,  and 
told  him  who  had  called  to  inquire.  He  had  never  seen 
her  more  serene  and  unruffled.  It  struck  him,  with  a 
curious  pang,  that  she  was  very  happy  in  being  with 
him,  so  happy  that  she  found  a  childish  pleasure  in 
rehearsing  the  trivial  incidents  of  her  day. 

After  dinner  they  went  to  the  library,  and  the  ser 
vant  put  the  coffee  and  liqueurs  on  a  low  table  before 
her  and  left  the  room.  She  looked  singularly  soft  and 
girlish  in  her  rosy  pale  dress,  against  the  dark  leather 
of  one  of  his  bachelor  armchairs.  A  day  earlier  thr 
contrast  would  have  charmed  him. 

He  turned  away  now,  choosing  a  cigar  with  affected 
deliberation. 

"Did  Haskett  come?"  he  asked,  with  his  back  to 
her. 

"Oh,  yes — he  came." 

"You  didn't  see  him,  of  course?" 

She  hesitated  a  moment.  "I  let  the  nurse  see  him.3 

That  was  all.  There  was  nothing  more  to  ask.  He 
[82] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

swung  round  toward  her,  applying  a  match  to  his 
cigar.  Well,  the  thing  was  over  for  a  week,  at  any 
rate.  He  would  try  not  to  think  of  it.  She  looked  up 
at  him,  a  trifle  rosier  than  usual,  with  a  smile  in  her 
eyes. 

"Ready  for  your  coffee,  dear?" 

He  leaned  against  the  mantelpiece,  watching  her  as 
she   lifted    the    coffee-pot.    The   lamplight   struck    a 
gleam  from  her  bracelets  and  tipped  her  soft  hair 
with  brightness.  How  light  and  slender  she  was,  and 
how  each  gesture  flowed  into  the  next!  She  seemed  / 
a  creature  all  compact  of  harmonies.  As  the  thought  j 
of  Haskett  receded,  Waythorn  felt  himself  yielding  V 
again  to  the  joy  of  possessorship.   They  were   his, 
those  white  hands  with  their  flitting  motions,  his  the 
light  haze  of  hair,  the  lips  and  eyes.  .  .  . 

She  set  down  the  coffee-pot,  and  reaching  for  the 
decanter  of  cognac,  measured  off  a  liqueur-glass  and 
poured  it  into  his  cup. 

Waythorn  uttered  a  sudden  exclamation. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  said,  startled. 

"Nothing;  only — I  don't  take  cognac  in  my  cof 
fee." 

"Oh,  how  stupid  of  me,"  she  cried. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  she  blushed  a  sudden  agonised    \Y 
red. 


[83] 


v 
^ 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

III 

ri  1  EN   days   later,  Mr.   Sellers,  still  house-bound, 
•*•     asked  Waythorn  to  call  on  his  way  down  town. 

The  senior  partner,  with  his  swaddled  foot  propped 
up  by  the  fire,  greeted  his  associate  with  an  air  of 
embarrassment. 

"I'm  sorry,  my  dear  fellow;  I've  got  to  ask  you  to 
do  an  awkward  thing  for  me." 

Waythorn  waited,  and  the  other  went  on,  after  a 
pause  apparently  given  to  the  arrangement  of  his 
phrases:  "The  fact  is,  when  I  was  knocked  out  I  had 
just  gone  into  a  rather  complicated  piece  of  business 
for — Gus  Varick." 

"Well?"  said  Waythorn,  with  an  attempt  to  put 
him  at  his  ease. 

"Well — it's  this  way:  Varick  came  to  me  the  day 
before  my  attack.  He  had  evidently  had  an  inside  tip 
from  somebody,  and  had  made  about  a  hundred  thou 
sand.  He  came  to  me  for  advice,  and  I  suggested  his 
going  in  with  Vanderlyn." 

"Oh,  the  deuce!"  Waythorn  exclaimed.  He  saw  in 
a  flash  what  had  happened.  The  investment  was  an 
alluring  one,  but  required  negotiation.  He  listened 
quietly  while  Sellers  put  the  case  before  him,  and,  the 
statement  ended,  he  said:  "You  think  I  ought  to  see 
Varick?" 

[84] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

"I'm  afraid  I  can't  as  yet.  The  doctor  is  obdurate. 
And  this  thing  can't  wait.  I  hate  to  ask  you,  but  no 
one  else  in  the  office  knows  the  ins  and  outs  of  it." 

Waythorn  stood  silent.  He  did  not  care  a  farthing 
for  the  success  of  Varick's  venture,  but  the  honour  of 
the  office  was  to  be  considered,  and  he  could  hardly 
refuse  to  oblige  his  partner. 

"Very  well,"  he  said,  "I'll  do  it." 

That  afternoon,  apprised  by  telephone,  Varick 
called  at  the  office.  Waythorn,  waiting  in  his  private 
room,  wondered  what  the  others  thought  of  it.  The 
newspapers,  at  the  time  of  Mrs.  Waythorn's  mar 
riage,  had  acquainted  their  readers  with  every  detail 
of  her  previous  matrimonial  ventures,  and  Waythorn 
could  fancy  the  clerks  smiling  behind  Varick's  back 
as  he  was  ushered  in. 

Varick  bore  himself  admirably.  He  was  easy  with 
out  being  undignified,  and  Waythorn  was  conscious  of 
cutting  a  much  less  impressive  figure.  Varick  had  no 
experience  of  business,  and  the  talk  prolonged  itself 
for  nearly  an  hour  while  Waythorn  set  forth  with 
scrupulous  precision  the  details  of  the  proposed 
transaction. 

"I'm  awfully  obliged  to  you,"  Varick  said  as  he 
rose.  "The  fact  is  I'm  not  used  to  having  much  money 
to  look  after,  and  I  don't  want  to  make  an  ass  of  my 
self — "  He  smiled,  and  Waythorn  could  not  help  no- 
[85] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

ticing  that  there  was  something  pleasant  about  his 
smile.  "It  feels  uncommonly  queer  to  have  enough 
cash  to  pay  one's  bills.  I'd  have  sold  my  soul  for  it  a 
few  years  ago !" 

Waythorn  winced  at  the  allusion.  He  had  heard  it 
rumoured  that  a  lack  of  funds  had  been  one  of  the  de 
termining  causes  of  the  Varick  separation,  but  it  did 
not  occur  to  him  that  Varick's  words  were  intentional. 
It  seemed  more  likely  that  the  desire  to  keep  clear  of 
embarrassing  topics  had  fatally  drawn  him  into  one. 
Waythorn  did  not  wish  to  be  outdone  in  civility. 

"We'll  do  the  best  we  can  for  you/'  he  said.  "I 
think  this  is  a  good  thing  you're  in." 

"Oh,  I'm  sure  it's  immense.  It's  awfully  good  of 
you — "  Varick  broke  off,  embarrassed.  "I  suppose  the 
thing's  settled  now — but  if — " 

"If  anything  happens  before  Sellers  is  about,  I'll 
see  you  again,"  said  Waythorn  quietly.  He  was  glad, 
in  the  end,  to  appear  the  more  self-possessed  of  the 
two. 


The  course  of  Lily's  illness  ran  smooth,  and  as  the 
days  passed  Waythorn  grew  used  to  the  idea  of  Has- 
kett's  weekly  visit.  The  first  time  the  day  came  round, 
he  stayed  out  late,  and  questioned  his  wife  as  to  the 
visit  on  his  return.  She  replied  at  once  that  Haskett 
[86] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

had  merely  seen  the  nurse  downstairs,  as  the  doctor 
did  not  wish  any  one  in  the  child's  sick-room  till  after 
the  crisis. 

The  following  week  Waythorn  was  again  conscious 
of  the  recurrence  of  the  day,  but  had  forgotten  it  by 
the  time  he  came  home  to  dinner.  The  crisis  of  the 
disease  came  a  few  days  later,  with  a  rapid  decline  of 
fever,  and  the  little  girl  was  pronounced  out  of  dan 
ger.  In  the  rejoicing  which  ensued  the  thought  of 
Haskett  passed  out  of  Waythorn's  mind,  and  one 
afternoon,  letting  himself  into  the  house  with  a  latch 
key,  he  went  straight  to  his  library  without  noticing  a 
shabby  hat  and  umbrella  in  the  hall. 

In  the  library  he  found  a  small  effaced-looking  man 
with  a  thinnish  gray  beard  sitting  on  the  edge  of  a 
chair.  The  stranger  might  have  been  a  piano-tuner, 
or  one  of  those  mysteriously  efficient  persons  who  are 
summoned  in  emergencies  to  adjust  some  detail  of  the 
domestic  machinery.  He  blinked  at  Waythorn  through 
a  pair  of  gold-rimmed  spectacles  and  said  mildly: 
"Mr.  Waythorn,  I  presume?  I  am  Lily's  father." 

Waythorn  flushed.  "Oh — "  he  stammered  uncom 
fortably.  He  broke  off,  disliking  to  appear  rude.  In 
wardly  he  was  trying  to  adjust  the  actual  Haskett  to 
the  image  of  him  projected  by  his  wife's  reminis 
cences.  Waythorn  had  been  allowed  to  infer  that 
Alice's  first  husband  was  a  brute. 
[87] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

"I  am  sorry  to  intrude/'  said  Haskett,  with  his 
over-the-counter  politeness. 

"Don't  mention  it/'  returned  Waythorn,  collecting 
himself.  "I  suppose  the  nurse  has  been  told?" 

"I  presume  so.  I  can  wait/'  said  Haskett.  He  had 
a  resigned  way  of  speaking,  as  though  life  had  worn 
down  his  natural  powers  of  resistance. 

Waythorn  stood  on  the  threshold,  nervously  pulling 
off  his  gloves. 

"I'm  sorry  you've  been  detained.  I  will  send  for  the 
nurse,"  he  said;  and  as  he  opened  the  door  he  added 
with  an  effort:  "I'm  glad  we  can  give  you  a  good  re 
port  of  Lily."  He  winced  as  the  we  slipped  out,  but 
Haskett  seemed  not  to  notice  it. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Waythorn.  It's  been  an  anxious 
time  for  me." 

"Ah,  well,  that's  past.  Soon  she'll  be  able  to  go  to 
you."  Waythorn  nodded  and  passed  out. 

In  his  own  room  he  flung  himself  down  with  a 
groan.  He  hated  the  womanish  sensibility  which  made 
him  suffer  so  acutely  from  the  grotesque  chances  of 
life.  He  had  known  when  he  married  that  his  wife's 
former  husbands  were  both  living,  and  that  amid  the 
multiplied  contacts  of  modern  existence  there  were  a 
thousand  chances  to  one  that  he  would  run  against 
one  or  the  other,  yet  he  found  himself  as  much  dis 
turbed  by  his  brief  encounter  with  Haskett  as  though 
[88] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

the  law  had  not  obligingly  removed  all  difficulties  in 
the  way  of  their  meeting. 

Waythorn  sprang  up  and  began  to  pace  the  room 
nervously.  He  had  not  suffered  half  as  much  from 
his  two  meetings  with  Varick.  It  was  Haskett's  pres 
ence  in  his  own  house  that  made  the  situation  so  in 
tolerable.  He  stood  still,  hearing  steps  in  the  passage. 

"This  way,  please,"  he  heard  the  nurse  say.  Has- 
kett  was  being  taken  upstairs,  then:  not  a  corner  of 
the  house  but  was  open  to  him.  Waythorn  dropped 
into  another  chair,  staring  vaguely  ahead  of  him.  On 
his  dressing-table  stood  a  photograph  of  Alice,  taken 
when  he  had  first  known  her.  She  was  Alice  Varick 
then — how  fine  and  exquisite  he  had  thought  her! 
Those  were  Varick's  pearls  about  her  neck.  At  Way- 
thorn's  instance  they  had  been  returned  before  her 
marriage.  Had  Haskett  ever  given  her  any  trinkets — 
and  what  had  become  of  them,  Waythorn  wondered? 
He  realised  suddenly  that  he  knew  very  little  of 
Haskett's  past  or  present  situation;  but  from  the 
^  man's  appearance  and  manner  of  speech  he  could  re 
construct  with  curious  precision  the  surroundings  of 
Alice's  first  marriage.  And  it  startled  him  to  think  that 
she  had,  in  the  background  of  her  life,  a  phase  of 
existence  so  different  from  anything  with  which  he 
had  connected  her.  Varick,  whatever  his  faults,  was 
a  gentleman,  in  the  conventional,  traditional  sense  of 
[89] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

the  term:  the  sense  which  at  that  moment  seemed, 
oddly  enough,  to  have  most  meaning  to  Waythorn. 
He  and  Varick  had  the  same  social  habits,  spoke  the 
same  language,  understood  the  same  allusions.  But 
this  other  man  ...  it  was  grotesquely  upper- 

Imost  in  Waythorn's  mind  that  Haskett  had  worn  a 
made-up  tie  attached  with  an  elastic.  Why  should  that 
ridiculous  detail  symbolise  the  whole  man?  Waythorn 
was  exasperated  by  his  own  paltriness,  but  the  fact  of 
the  tie  expanded,  forced  itself  on  him,  became  as  it 
were  the  key  to  Alice's  past.  He  could  see  her,  as  Mrs. 
Haskett,  sitting  in  a  "  front  parlour  "  furnished  in 
plush,  with  a  pianola,  and  a  copy  of  "Ben  Hur"  on 
the  centre-table.  He  could  see  her  going  to  the  thea 
tre  with  Haskett — or  perhaps  even  to  a  "Church  So 
ciable" — she  in  a  "picture  hat"  and  Haskett  in  a 
black  frock-coat,  a  little  creased,  with  the  made-up 
tie  on  an  elastic.  On  the  way  home  they  would  stop 
and  look  at  the  illuminated  shop-windows,  lingering 
over  the  photographs  of  New  York  actresses.  On  Sun 
day  afternoons  Haskett  would  take  her  for  a  walk, 
pushing  Lily  ahead  of  them  in  a  white  enamelled  per 
ambulator,  and  Waythorn  had  a  vision  of  the  people 
they  would  stop  and  talk  to.  He  could  fancy  how 
pretty  Alice  must  have  looked,  in  a  dress  adroitly 
constructed  from  the  hints  of  a  New  York  fashion- 
paper,  and  how  she  must  have  looked  down  on  the 
[90] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

other  women,  chafing  at  her  life,  and  secretly  feeling 
that  she  belonged  in  a  bigger  place. 

For  the  moment  his  foremost  thought  was  one  of 
wonder  at  the  way  in  which  she  had  shed  the  phase 
of  existence  which  her  marriage  with  Haskett  im 
plied.  It  was  as  if  her  whole  aspect,  every  gesture, 
every  inflection,  every  allusion,  were  a  studied  nega 
tion  of  that  period  of  her  life.  If  she  had  denied  be 
ing  married  to  Haskett  she  could  hardly  have  stood 
more  convicted  of  duplicity  than  in  this  obliteration 
of  the  self  which  had  been  his  wife. 

Waythorn  started  up,  checking  himself  in  the 
analysis  of  her  motives.  What  right  had  he  to  create 
a  fantastic  effigy  of  her  and  then  pass  judgment  on 
it?  She  had  spoken  vaguely  of  her  first  marriage  as 
unhappy,  had  hinted,  with  becoming  reticence,  that 
Haskett  had  wrought  havoc  among  her  young  illu 
sions.  ...  It  was  a  pity  for  Waythorn's  peace 
of  mind  that  Haskett's  very  inoffensiveness  shed  a 
new  light  on  the  nature  of  those  illusions.  A  man 
would  rather  think  that  his  wife  has  been  brutalised 
by  her  first  husband  than  that  the  process  has  been 
reversed. 


[91] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 
IV 

"A/TR'  WAYTHORN;  I  don>t  like  that  French 
•^  -*-  governess  of  Lily's." 

Haskett,  subdued  and  apologetic,  stood  before 
Waythorn  in  the  library,  revolving  his  shabby  hat  in 
his  hand. 

Waythorn,  surprised  in  his  armchair  over  the  even 
ing  paper,  stared  back  perplexedly  at  his  visitor. 

"You'll  excuse  my  asking  to  see  you,"  Haskett  con 
tinued.  "But  this  is  my  last  visit,  and  I  thought  if  I 
could  have  a  word  with  you  it  would  be  a  better  way 
than  writing  to  Mrs.  Waythorn's  lawyer." 

Waythorn  rose  uneasily.  He  did  not  like  the  French 
governess  either;  but  that  was  irrelevant. 

"I  am  not  so  sure  of  that,"  he  returned  stiffly ;  "but 
since  you  wish  it  I  will  give  your  message  to — my 
wife."  He  always  hesitated  over  the  possessive  pro 
noun  in  addressing  Haskett. 

The  latter  sighed.  "I  don't  know  as  that  will  help 
much.  She  didn't  like  it  when  I  spoke  to  her." 

Waythorn  turned  red.  "When  did  you  see  her?"  he 
asked. 

"Not  since  the  first  day  I  came  to  see  Lily — right 
after  she  was  taken  sick.  I  remarked  to  her  then  that 
I  didn't  like  the  governess." 

Waythorn  made  no  answer.  He  remembered  dis- 
[92] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

tinctly  that,  after  that  first  visit,  he  had  asked  his 
wife  if  she  had  seen  Haskett.  She  had  lied  to  him 
then,  but  she  had  respected  his  wishes  since;  and  the 
incident  cast  a  curious  light  on  her  character.  He  was 
sure  she  would  not  have  seen  Haskett  that  first  day 
if  she  had  divined  that  Waythorn  would  object,  and 
the  fact  that  she  did  not  divine  it  was  almost  as  dis-  \ 
agreeable  to  the  latter  as  the  discovery  that  she  had 
lied  to  him. 

"I  don't  like  the  woman,"  Haskett  was  repeating 
with  mild  persistency.  "She  ain't  straight,  Mr.  Way- 
thorn — she'll  teach  the  child  to  be  underhand.  I've 
noticed  a  change  in  Lily — she's  too  anxious  to  please 
— and  she  don't  always  tell  the  truth.  She  used  to  be 
the  straightest  child,  Mr.  Waythorn — "  He  broke  off, 
his  voice  a  little  thick.  "Not  but  what  I  want  her  to 
have  a  stylish  education,"  he  ended. 

Waythorn  was  touched.  "I'm  sorry,  Mr.  Haskett; 
but  frankly,  I  don't  quite  see  what  I  can  do." 

Haskett  hesitated.  Then  he  laid  his  hat  on  the 
table,  and  advanced  to  the  hearth-rug,  on  which  Way- 
thorn  was  standing.  There  was  nothing  aggressive  in 
his  manner,  but  he  had  the  solemnity  of  a  timid  man 
resolved  on  a  decisive  measure. 

There's   just   one  thing   you  can   do,    Mr.   Way- 
lorn,"   he   said.   "You   can  remind   Mrs.   Waythorn 
;hat,  by  the  decree  of  the  courts,  I  am  entitled  to 
[93] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

have  a  voice  in  Lily's  bringing  up."  He  paused,  and 
went  on  more  deprecatingly :  "I'm  not  the  kind  to 
talk  about  enforcing  my  rights,  Mr.  Waythorn.  I 
don't  know  as  I  think  a  man  is  entitled  to  rights  he 
hasn't  known  how  to  hold  on  to;  but  this  business  of 
the  child  is  different.  I've  never  let  go  there — and  I 
never  mean  to." 

The  scene  left  Waythorn  deeply  shaken.  Shame 
facedly,  in  indirect  ways,  he  had  been  finding  out 
about  Haskett ;  and  all  that  he  had  learned  was  favour 
able.  The  little  man,  in  order  to  be  near  his  daughter, 
had  sold  out  his  share  in  a  profitable  business  in  Utica, 
and  accepted  a  modest  clerkship  in  a  New  York  manu 
facturing  house.  He  boarded  in  a  shabby  street  and 
had  few  acquaintances.  His  passion  for  Lily  filled  his 
life.  Waythorn  felt  that  this  exploration  of  Haskett 
was  like  groping  about  with  a  dark-lantern  in  his 
wife's  past;  but  he  saw  now  that  there  were  recesses 
his  lantern  had  not  explored.  He  had  never  enquired 
into  the  exact  circumstances  of  his  wife's  first  matri 
monial  rupture.  On  the  surface  all  had  been  fair.  H 
was  she  who  had  obtained  the  divorce,  and  the  court 
had  given  her  the  child.  But  Waythorn  knew  how 
many  ambiguities  such  a  verdict  might  cover.  Th( 
mere  fact  that  Haskett  retained  a  right  over  his 
daughter  implied  an  unsuspected  compromise.  Way- 
[94] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

thorn  was  an  idealist.  He  always  refused  to  recognise 
unpleasant  contingencies  till  he  found  'himself  con- 
.  fronted  with  them,  and  then  he  saw  them  followed  by 
a  spectral  train  of  consequences.  His  next  days  were 
thus  haunted,  and  he  determined  to  try  to  lay  the 
ghosts  by  conjuring  them  up  in  his  wife's  presence. 

When  he  repeated  Haskett's  request  a  flame  of  an 
ger  passed  over  her  face;  but  she  subdued  it  instantly 
and  spoke  with  a  slight  quiver  of  outraged  mother 
hood. 

"It  is  very  ungentlemanly  of  him,"  she  said. 

The  word  grated  on  Waythorn.  "That  is  neither 
here  nor  there.  It's  a  bare  question  of  rights." 

She  murmured:  "It's  not  as  if  he  could  ever  be  a 
help  to  Lily—" 

Waythorn  flushed.  This  was  even  less  to  his  taste. 
"The  question  is,"  he  repeated,  "what  authority  has 
he  over  her?" 

She  looked  downward,  twisting  herself  a  little  in 
her  seat.  "I  am  willing  to  see  him — I  thought  you 
objected,"  she  faltered. 

In  a  flash  he  understood  that  she  knew  the  extent 
of  Haskett's  claims.  Perhaps  it  was  not  the  first  time 
she  had  resisted  them. 

"My  objecting  has  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  he  said 
coldly;  "if  Haskett  has  a  right  to  be  consulted  you 
must  consult  him." 

[95] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

She  burst  into  tears,  and  he  saw  that  she  expected 
him  to  regard  her  as  a  victim. 

Haskett  did  not  abuse  his  rights.  Waythorn  had 
felt  miserably  sure  that  he  would  not.  But  the  gov 
erness  was  dismissed,  and  from  time  to  time  the  lit 
tle  man  demanded  an  interview  with  Alice.  After  the 
first  outburst  she  accepted  the  situation  with  her 
usual  adaptability.  Haskett  had  once  reminded  Way- 
thorn  of  the  piano-tuner,  and  Mrs.  Waythorn,  after 
a  month  or  two,  appeared  to  class  him  with  that  do 
mestic  familiar.  Waythorn  could  not  but  respect  the 
father's  tenacity.  At  first  he  had  tried  to  cultivate  the 
suspicion  that  Haskett  might  be  "up  to"  something, 
that  he  had  an  object  in  securing  a  foothold  in  the 
house.  But  in  his  heart  Waythorn  was  sure  of  Has- 
kett's  single-mindedness ;  he  even  guessed  in  the 
latter  a  mild  contempt  for  such  advantages  as  his 
relation  with  the  Waythorns  might  offer.  Haskett's 
sincerity  of  purpose  made  him  invulnerable,  and  his 
successor  had  to  accept  him  as  a  lien  on  the  property. 


Mr.  Sellers  was  sent  to  Europe  to  recover  from  his 
gout,  and  Varick's  affairs  hung  on  Waythorn's  hands. 
The  negotiations  were  prolonged  and  complicated; 
they  necessitated  frequent  conferences  between  the 
two  men,  and  the  interests  of  the  firm  forbade  Way- 
[96] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

thorn's  suggesting  that  his  client  should  transfer  his 
business  to  another  office. 

Varick  appeared  well  in  the  transaction.  In  mo 
ments  of  relaxation  his  coarse  streak  appeared,  and 
Waythorn  dreaded  his  geniality;  but  in  the  office  he 
was  concise  and  clear-headed,  with  a  flattering  defer 
ence  to  Waythorn's  judgment.  Their  business  rela 
tions  being  so  affably  established,  it  would  have  been 
absurd  for  the  two  men  to  ignore  each  other  in  so 
ciety.  The  first  time  they  met  in  a  drawing-room, 
Varick  took  up  their  intercourse  in  the  same  easy  key, 
and  his  hostess's  grateful  glance  obliged  Waythorn 
to  respond  to  it.  After  that  they  ran  across  each  other 
frequently,  and  one  evening  at  a  ball  Waythorn,  wan 
dering  through  the  remoter  rooms,  came  upon  Varick 
seated  beside  his  wife.  She  coloured  a  little,  and 
faltered  in  what  she  was  saying;  but  Varick  nodded 
to  Waythorn  without  rising,  and  the  latter  strolled 
on. 

In  the  carriage,  on  the  way  home,  he  broke  out  ner 
vously:  "I  didn't  know  you  spoke  to  Varick." 

Her  voice  trembled  a  little.  "It's  the  first  time — he 
happened  to  be  standing  near  me;  I  didn't  know 
what  to  do.  It's  so  awkward,  meeting  everywhere — 
and  he  said  you  had  been  very  kind  about  some  busi 
ness." 

"That's  different,"  said  Waythorn. 
[97] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

She  paused  a  moment.  "Ill  do  just  as  you  wish/' 
she  returned  pliantly.  "I  thought  it  would  be  less 
awkward  to  speak  to  him  when  we  meet." 

<Her  pliancy  was  beginning  to  sicken  him.  Had  she 
really  no  will  of  her  own — no  theory  about  her  rela 
tion  to  these  men?  She  had  accepted  Haskett — did 
she  mean  to  accept  Varick?  It  was  "less  awkward," 
as  she  had  said,  and  her  instinct  was  to  evade  diffi 
culties  or  to  circumvent  them.  With  sudden  vividness 
Waythorn  saw  how  the  instinct  had  developed.  She 
was  "as  easy  as  an  old  shoe" — a  shoe  that  too  many 
feet  had  worn.  Her  elasticity  was  the  result  of  ten 
sion  in  too  many  different  directions.  Alice  Haskett 
— Alice  Varick — Alice  Waythorn — she  had  been  each 
in  turn,  and  had  left  hanging  to  each  name  a  little 
of  her  privacy,  a  little  of  her  personality,  a  little  of 
the  inmost  self  where  the  unknown  god  abides. 

"Yes— it's  better  to  speak  to  Varick,"  said  Way- 
thorn  wearily. 


winter    wore    on,    and    society    took    ad- 
vantage  of  the  Waythorns'  acceptance  of  Var 
ick.    Harassed   hostesses  were  grateful  to   them   for 
bridging  over  a  social  difficulty,  and  Mrs.  Waythorn 
was  held  up  as  a  miracle  of  good  taste.   Some  ex- 
[98] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

perimental  spirits  could  not  resist  the  diversion  of 
throwing  Varick  and  his  former  wife  together,  and 
there  were  those  who  thought  he  found  a  zest  in  the 
propinquity.  But  Mrs.  Waythorn's  conduct  remained 
irreproachable.  She  neither  avoided  Varick  nor  sought 
him  out.  Even  Way  thorn  could  not  but  admit  that  ; 
she  had  discovered  the  solution  of  the  newest  social 
problem. 

He  had  married  her  without  giving  much  thought  to 
that  problem.  He  had  fancied  that  a  woman  can  shed 
her  past  like  a  man.  But  now  he  saw  that  Alice  was 
bound  to  hers  both  by  the  circumstances  which  forced 
her  into  continued  relation  with  it,  and  by  the  traces 
it  had  left  on  her  nature.  With  grim  irony  Waythorn 
compared  himself  to  a  member  of  a  syndicate.  He 
held  so  many  shares  in  his  wife's  personality  and  his 
predecessors  were  his  partners  in  the  business.  If 
there  had  been  any  element  of  passion  in  the  transac 
tion  he  would  have  felt  less  deteriorated  by  it.  The 
fact  that  Alice  took  her  change  of  husbands  like  a 
change  of  weather  reduced  the  situation  to  mediocrity. 
He  could  have  forgiven  her  for  blunders,  for  excesses ; 
for  resisting  Haskett,  for  yielding  to  Varick;  for 
anything  but  her  acquiescence  and  her  tact.  She  re 
minded  him  of  a  juggler  tossing  knives;  but  the 
knives  were  blunt  and  she  knew  they  would  never 
cut  her. 

[99] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

And  then,  gradually,  habit  formed  a  protecting  sur 
face  for  his  sensibilities.  If  he  paid  for  each  day's 
i  comfort  with  the  small  change  of  his  illusions,  he 
grew  daily  to  value  the  comfort  more  and  set  less  store 
upon  the  coin.  He  had  drifted  into  a  dulling  pro 
pinquity  with  Haskett  and  Varick  and  he  took  refuge 
in  the  cheap  revenge  of  satirising  the  situation.  He 
even  began  to  reckon  up  the  advantages  which  ac 
crued  from  it,  to  ask  himself  if  it  were  not  better  to 
own  a  third  of  a  wife  who  knew  how  to  make  a  man 
happy  than  a  whole  one  who  had  lacked  opportunity 
to  acquire  the  art.  For  it  was  an  art,  and  made  up, 
like  all  others,  of  concessions,  eliminations  and  em 
bellishments;  of  lights  judiciously  thrown  and  shad 
ows  skilfully  softened.  His  wife  knew  exactly  how 
to  manage  the  lights,  and  he  knew  exactly  to  what 
training  she  owed  her  skill.  He  even  tried  to  trace 
the  source  of  his  obligations,  to  discriminate  between 
the  influences  which  had  combined  to  produce  his  do 
mestic  happiness:  he  perceived  that  Haskett's  com 
monness  had  made  Alice  worship  good  breeding, 
while  Varick's  liberal  construction  of  the  marriage 
bond  had  taught  her  to  value  the  conjugal  virtues;  so 
that  he  was  directly  indebted  to  his  predecessors  for 
the  devotion  which  made  his  life  easy  if  not  inspiring. 

From  this  phase  he  passed  into  that  of  complete  ac 
ceptance.  He  ceased  to  satirise  himself  because  time 
[100] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

dulled  the  irony  of  the  situation  and  the  joke  lost  its 
humour  with  its  sting.  Even  tlifr  sight  'of  Ha  skew's 
hat  on  the  hall  table  had  ceased  to  touch  the  springs 
of  epigram.  The  hat  was  often  seen  there  now,  for  it 
had  been  decided  that  it  was  better  for  Lily's  father 
to  visit  her  than  for  the  little  girl  to  go  to  his  board 
ing-house.  Waythorn,  having  acquiesced  in  this  ar 
rangement,  had  been  surprised  to  find  how  little  dif 
ference  it  made.  Haskett  was  never  obtrusive,  and 
the  few  visitors  who  met  him  on  the  stairs  were  un 
aware  of  his  identity.  Waythorn  did  not  know  how 
often  he  saw  Alice,  but  with  himself  Haskett  was  sel 
dom  in  contact. 

One  afternoon,  however,  he  learned  on  entering  that 
Lily's  father  was  waiting  to  see  him.  In  the  library 
he  found  Haskett  occupying  a  chair  in  his  usual  pro 
visional  way.  Waythorn  always  felt  grateful  to  him 
for  not  leaning  back. 

"I  hope  you'll  excuse  me,  Mr.  Waythorn,"  he  said 
rising.  "I  wanted  to  see  Mrs.  Waythorn  about  Lily, 
and  your  man  asked  me  to  wait  here  till  she  came 
in." 

"Of  course,"  said  Waythorn,  remembering  that  a 
sudden  leak  had  that  morning  given  over  the  draw 
ing-room  to  the  plumbers. 

He  opened  his  cigar-case  and  held  it  out  to  his  vis 
itor,  and  Haskett's  acceptance  seemed  to  mark  a  fresh 
[101] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

stage  .in  their  intercourse.  The  spring  evening  was 
chilly^  and  Way.thorn  invited  his  guest  to  draw  up  his 
chair  to  the  fire.  He  meant  to  find  an  excuse  to  leave 
Haskett  in  a  moment;  but  he  was  tired  and  cold,  and 
after  all  the  little  man  no  longer  jarred  on  him. 

The  two  were  enclosed  in  the  intimacy  of  their 
blended  cigar-smoke  when  the  door  opened  and  Varick 
walked  into  the  room.  Waythorn  rose  abruptly.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  Varick  had  come  to  the  house,  and 
the  surprise  of  seeing  him,  combined  with  the  singular 
inopportuneness  of  his  arrival,  gave  a  new  edge  to 
Waythorn's  blunted  sensibilities.  He  stared  at  his 
visitor  without  speaking. 

Varick  seemed  too  preoccupied  to  notice  his  host's 
embar  ras  sment . 

"My  dear  fellow,"  he  exclaimed  in  his  most  expan 
sive  tone,  "I  must  apologise  for  tumbling  in  on  you 
in  this  way,  but  I  was  too  late  to  catch  you  down 
town,  and  so  I  thought — " 

He  stopped  short,  catching  sight  of  Haskett,  and 
his  sanguine  colour  deepened  to  a  flush  which  spread 
vividly  under  his  scant  blond  hair.  But  in  a  moment 
he  recovered  himself  and  nodded  slightly.  Haskett  re 
turned  the  bow  in  silence,  and  Waythorn  was  still 
groping  for  speech  when  the  footman  came  in  car 
rying  a  tea-table. 

The  intrusion  offered  a  welcome  vent  to  Waythorn's 
[102] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

nerves.  "What  the  deuce  are  you  bringing  this  here 
for?"  he  said  sharply. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  but  the  plumbers  are  still 
in  the  drawing-room,  and  Mrs.  Way  thorn  said  she 
would  have  tea  in  the  library."  The  footman's  per 
fectly  respectful  tone  implied  a  reflection  on  Way- 
thorn's  reasonableness. 

"Oh,  very  well,"  said  the  latter  resignedly,  and  the 
footman  proceeded  to  open  the  folding  tea-table  and 
set  out  its  complicated  appointments.  While  this  in 
terminable  process  continued  the  three  men  stood 
motionless,  watching  it  with  a  fascinated  stare,  till 
Waythorn,  to  break  the  silence,  said  to  Varick:  "Won't 
you  have  a  cigar?" 

He  held  out  the  case  he  had  just  tendered  to  Has- 
kett,  and  Varick  helped  himself  with  a  smile.  Way- 
thorn  looked  about  for  a  match,  and  finding  none, 
proffered  a  light  from  his  own  cigar.  Haskett,  in  the 
background,  held  his  ground  mildly,  examining  his 
cigar-tip  now  and  then,  and  stepping  forward  at  the 
right  moment  to  knock  its  ashes  into  the  fire. 

The  footman  at  last  withdrew,  and  Varick  immedi 
ately  began:  "If  I  could  just  say  half  a  word  to  you 
about  this  business — " 

"Certainly,"  stammered  Waythorn;  "in  the  dining- 
room — " 

But  as  he  placed  his  hand  on  the  door  it  opened 
[103] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

from  without,  and  his  wife  appeared  on  the  thres 
hold. 

She  came  in  fresh  and  smiling,  in  her  street  dress 
and  hat,  shedding  a  fragrance  from  the  boa  which 
she  loosened  in  advancing. 

"Shall  we  have  tea  in  here,  dear?"  she  began;  and 
then  she  caught  sight  of  Varick.  Her  smile  deepened, 
veiling  a  slight  tremor  of  surprise. 

"Why,  how  do  you  do?"  she  said  with  a  distinct 
note  of  pleasure. 

As  she  shook  hands  with  Varick  she  saw  Haskett 
standing  behind  him.  Her  smile  faded  for  a  moment, 
but  she  recalled  it  quickly,  with  a  scarcely  perceptible 
side-glance  at  Waythorn. 

"How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Haskett?"  she  said,  and  shook 
hands  with  him  a  shade  less  cordially. 

The  three  men  stood  awkwardly  before  her,  till 
Varick,  always  the  most  self-possessed,  dashed  into 
an  explanatory  phrase. 

"We — I  had  to  see  Waythorn  a  moment  on  busi 
ness,"  he  stammered,  brick-red  from  chin  to  nape. 

Haskett  stepped  forward  with  his  air  of  mild  obsti 
nacy.  "I  am  sorry  to  intrude;  but  you  appointed  five 
o'clock — "  he  directed  his  resigned  glance  to  the  time 
piece  on  the  mantel. 

She  swept  aside  their  embarrassment  with  a  charm 
ing  gesture  of  hospitality. 

[104] 


THE    OTHER    TWO 

"I'm  so  sorry — I'm  always  late;  but  the  afternoon 
was  so  lovely."  She  stood  drawing  off  her  gloves,  pro 
pitiatory  and  graceful,  diffusing  about  her  a  sense  of 
ease  and  familiarity  in  which  the  situation  lost  its 
grotesqueness.  "But  before  talking  business,"  she 
added  brightly,  "I'm  sure  every  one  wants  a  cup  of 
tea." 

She  dropped  into  her  low  chair  by  the  tea-table,  and 
the  two  visitors,  as  if  drawn  by  her  smile,  advanced  to 
receive  the  cups  she  held  out. 

She  glanced  about  for  Waythorn,  and  he  took  the 
third  cup  with  a  laugh. 


[105] 


THE    QUICKSAND 


THE    QUICKSAND 


AS  Mrs.  Quentin's  victoria,  driving  homeward, 
turned  from  the  Park  into  Fifth  Avenue,  she 
divined  her  son's  tall  figure  walking  ahead  of 
her  in  the  twilight.    His  long  stride  covered  the  ground 
more  rapidly  than  usual,  and  she  had  a  premonition 
that,  if  he  were  going  home  at  that  hour,  it  was  be 
cause  he  wanted  to  see  her. 

Mrs.  Quentin,  though  not  a  fanciful  woman,  was 
sometimes  aware  of  a  sixth  sense  enabling  her  to  de 
tect  the  faintest  vibrations  of  her  son's  impulses.  She 
was  too  shrewd  to  fancy  herself  the  one  mother  in 
possession  of  this  faculty,  but  she  permitted  herself 
to  think  that  few  could  exercise  it  more  discreetly. 
If  she  could  not  help  overhearing  Alan's  thoughts, 
she  had  the  courage  to  keep  her  discoveries  to  herself, 
the  tact  to  take  for  granted  nothing  that  lay  below 
the  surface  of  their  spoken  intercourse :  she  knew 
that  most  people  would  rather  have  their  letters  read 
than  their  thoughts.  For  this  super  feminine  discretion 
Alan  repaid  her  by — being  Alan.  There  could  have 
been  no  completer  reward.  He  was  the  key  to  the 
meaning  of  life,  the  justification  of  what  must  have 
seemed  as  incomprehensible  as  it  was  odious,  'had  it 
[  109  ] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

not  all-sufficingly  ended  in  himself.  He  was  a  perfect 
son,  and  Mrs.  Quentin  had  always  hungered  for  per 
fection. 

Her  house,  in  a  minor  way,  bore  witness  to  the 
craving.  One  felt  it  to  be  the  result  of  a  series  of 
eliminations:  there  was  nothing  fortuitous  in  its 
blending  of  line  and  colour.  The  almost  morbid  finish 
of  every  material  detail  of  her  life  suggested  the  pos 
sibility  that  a  diversity  of  energies  had,  by  some 
pressure  of  circumstance,  been  forced  into  the  chan 
nel  of  a  narrow  dilettanteism.  Mrs.  Quentin's  fas 
tidiousness  had,  indeed,  the  flaw  of  being  too  one 
sided.  Her  friends  were  not  always  worthy  of  the 
chairs  they  sat  in,  and  she  overlooked  in  her  associates 
defects  she  would  not  have  tolerated  in  her  bric-a- 
brac.  Her  house  was,  in  fact,  never  so  distinguished 
as  when  it  was  empty;  and  it  was  at  its  best  in  the 
warm  fire-lit  silence  that  now  received  her. 

Her  son,  who  had  overtaken  her  on  the  door-step, 
followed  her  into  the  drawing-room,  and  threw  him 
self  into  an  armchair  near  the  fire,  while  she  laid  off 
her  furs  and  busied  herself  about  the  tea-table.  For 
a  while  neither  spoke;  but  glancing  at  him  across  the 
kettle,  his  mother  noticed  that  he  sat  staring  at  the 
embers  with  a  look  she  had  never  seen  on  his  face, 
though  its  arrogant  young  outline  was  as  familiar  to 
her  as  her  own  thoughts.  The  look  extended  itself  to 
[110] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

his  negligent  attitude,  to  the  droop  of  his  long  fine 
hands,  the  dejected  tilt  of  his  head  against  the  cush 
ions.  It  was  like  the  moral  equivalent  of  physical 
fatigue:  he  looked,  as  he  himself  would  have  phrased 
it,  dead-beat,  played  out.  Such  an  air  was  so  for 
eign  to  his  usual  bright  indomitableness  that  Mrs. 
Quentin  had  the  sense  of  an  unfamiliar  presence,  in 
which  she  must  observe  herself,  must  raise  hurried 
barriers  against  an  alien  approach.  It  was  one  of  the 
drawbacks  of  their  excessive  intimacy  that  any  break 
in  it  seemed  a  chasm. 

She  was  accustomed  to  let  his  thoughts  circle  about 
her  before  they  settled  into  speech,  and  she  now  sat 
in  motionless  expectancy,  as  though  a  sound  might 
frighten  them  away. 

At  length,  without  turning  his  eyes  from  the  fire, 
he  said:  "I'm  so  glad  you're  a  nice  old-fashioned  in 
tuitive  woman.  It's  painful  to  see  them  think." 

Her  apprehension  had  already  preceded  him. 
"Hope  Fenno — ?"  she  faltered. 

He  nodded.  "She's  been  thinking — hard.  It  was 
very  painful — to  me  at  least;  and  I  don't  believe  she 
enjoyed  it:  she  said  she  didn't."  He  stretched  his 
feet  to  the  fire.  "The  result  of  her  cogitations  is  that 
she  won't  have  me.  She  arrived  at  this  by  pure  ra 
tiocination — it's  not  a  question  of  feeling,  you  under 
stand.  I'm  the  only  man  she's  ever  loved — but  she 

[in] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

won't  have  me.  What  novels  did  you  read  when  you 
were  young,  dear?  I'm  convinced  it  all  turns  on 
that.  If  she'd  been  brought  up  on  Trollope  and 
Whyte-Melville,  instead  of  Tolstoi  and  Mrs.  Ward, 
we  should  have  now  been  vulgarly  sitting  on  a  sofa, 
trying  on  the  engagement-ring." 

Mrs.  Quentin  at  first  was  kept  silent  by  the  mother's 
instinctive  anger  that  the  girl  she  has  not  wanted  for 
her  son  should  have  dared  to  refuse  him.  Then  she 
said:  "Tell  me,  dear." 

"My  good  woman,  she  has  scruples." 

"Scruples?" 

"Against  the  paper.  She  objects  to  me  in  my  official 
capacity  as  owner  of  the  Radiator." 

His  mother  did  not  echo  his  laugh. 

"She  had  found  a  solution,  of  course — she  over 
flows  with  expedients.  I  was  to  chuck  the  paper,  and 
we  were  to  live  happily  ever  afterward  on  canned 
food  and  virtue.  She  even  had  an  alternative  ready — 
women  are  so  full  of  resources !  I  was  to  turn  the 
Radiator  into  an  independent  organ,  and  run  it  at  a 
loss  to  show  the  public  what  a  model  newspaper 
ought  to  be.  On  the  whole,  I  think  she  fancied  this 
plan  more  than  the  other — it  commended  itself  to  her 
as  being  more  uncomfortable  and  aggressive.  It's  not 
the  fashion  nowadays  to  be  good  by  stealth." 

Mrs.  Quentin  said  to  herself:  "I  don't  know  how 
[112] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

much  he  cared!"     Aloud  she  murmured:  "You  must 
give  her  time." 

"Time?" 

"To  move  out  the  old  prejudices  and  make  room 
for  new  ones." 

"My  dear  mother,  those  she  has  are  brand-new; 
that's  the  trouble  with  them.  She's  tremendously  up- 
to-date.  She  takes  in  all  the  moral  fashion-papers, 
and  wears  the  newest  thing  in  ethics." 

Her  resentment  lost  its  way  in  the  intricacies  of 
his  metaphor.  "Is  she  so  very  religious?" 

"You  dear  archaic  woman!  She's  hopelessly  irre 
ligious  ;  that's  the  difficulty.  You  can  make  a  religious 
woman  believe  almost  anything:  there's  the  habit  of 
credulity  to  work  on.  But  when  a  girl's  faith  in  the 
Deluge  has  been  shaken,  it's  very  hard  to  inspire  her 
with  confidence.  She  makes  you  feel  that,  before  be 
lieving  in  you,  it's  her  duty  as  a  conscientious  agnostic 
to  find  out  whether  you're  not  obsolete,  or  whether  the 
text  isn't  corrupt,  or  somebody  hasn't  proved  conclu 
sively  that  you  never  existed,  anyhow." 

Mrs.  Quentin  was  again  silent.  The  two  moved 
in  that  atmosphere  of  implications  and  assumptions 
where  the  lightest  word  may  shake  down  the  dust  of 
countless  stored  impressions;  and  speech  was  some 
times  more  difficult  between  them  than  had  their  union 
been  less  close. 

[113] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

Presently  she  ventured,  "It's  impossible?" 

"Impossible?" 

She  seemed  to  use  her  words  cautiously,  like 
weapons  that  might  slip  and  inflict  a  cut.  "What  she 
suggests." 

Her  son,  raising  himself,  turned  to  look  at  her  for 
the  first  time.  Their  glance  met  in  a  shock  of  com 
prehension.  He  was  with  her  against  the  girl,  then! 
Her  satisfaction  overflowed  in  a  murmur  of  tender 
ness. 

"Of  course  not,  dear.  One  can't  change — change 
one's  life.  .  .  ." 

"One's  self,"  he  emended.  "That's  what  I  tell  her. 
What's  the  use  of  my  giving  up  the  paper  if  I  keep 
my  point  of  view?" 

The  psychological  distinction  attracted  her.  "Which 
is  it  she  minds  most?" 

"Oh,  the  paper — for  the  present.  She  undertakes 
to  modify  the  point  of  view  afterward.  All  she  asks 
is  that  I  shall  renounce  my  heresy:  the  gift  of  grace 
will  come  later." 

Mrs.  Quentin  sat  gazing  into  her  untouched  cup. 
Her  son's  first  words  had  produced  in  her  the  hal 
lucinated  sense  of  struggling  in  the  thick  of  a  crowd 
that  he  could  not  see.  It  was  horrible  to  feel  herself 
hemmed  in  by  influences  imperceptible  to  him;  yet  if 
anything  could  have  increased  her  misery  it  would 
[114] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

have  been  the  discovery  that  her  ghosts  had  become 
visible. 

As  though  to  divert  his  attention,  she  precipitately 
asked:  "Are  you — ?" 

His  answer  carried  the  shock  of  an  evocation.  "I 
merely  asked  her  what  she  thought  of  you." 

"Of  me?" 

"She  admires  you  immensely,  you  know." 

For  a  moment  Mrs.  Quentin's  cheek  showed  the 
lingering  light  of  girlhood:  praise  transmitted  by  her 
son  acquired  something  of  the  transmitter's  merit. 
"Well—?"  she  smiled. 

"Well — you  didn't  make  my  father  give  up  the 
Radiator,  did  you?" 

His  mother,  stiffening,  made  a  circuitous  return: 
"She  never  comes  here.  How  can  she  know  me?"  I' 

"She's  so  poor!  She  goes  out  so  little."  He  rose 
and  leaned  against  the  mantlepiece,  dislodging  with 
impatient  fingers  a  slender  bronze  wrestler  poised  on 
a  porphyry  base,  between  two  warm-toned  Spanish 
ivories.  "And  then  her  mother — "  he  added,  as  if  in 
voluntarily. 

"Her  mother  has  never  visited  me,"  Mrs.  Quentin 
finished  for  him. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "Mrs.  Fenno  has  the 
scope  of  a  wax  doll.  Her  rule  of  conduct  is  taken 
from  her  grandmother's  sampler." 
[115] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

"But  the  daughter  is  so  modern — and  yet — " 

"The  result  is  the  same?  Not  exactly.  She  admires 
you — oh,  immensely!"  He  replaced  the  bronze  and 
turned  to  his  mother  with  a  smile.  "Aren't  you  on 
some  hospital  committee  together?  What  especially 
strikes  her  is  your  way  of  doing  good.  She  says 
philanthropy  is  not  a  line  of  conduct  but  a  state  of 
mind — and  it  appears  that  you  are  one  of  the  elect." 

As,  in  the  vague  diffusion  of  physical  pain,  relief 
seems  to  come  with  the  acuter  pang  of  a  single  nerve, 
Mrs.  Quentin  felt  herself  suddenly  eased  by  a  rush 
of  anger  against  the  girl.  "If  she  loved  you — "  she 
began. 

His  gesture  checked  her.  "I'm  not  asking  you  to  get 
her  to  do  that." 

The  two  were  again  silent,  facing  each  other  in 
the  disarray  of  a  common  catastrophe — as  though 
their  thoughts,  at  the  summons  of  danger,  had  rushed 
naked  into  action.  Mrs.  Quentin,  at  this  revealing  mo 
ment,  saw  for  the  first  time  how  many  elements  of 
her  son's  character  had  seemed  comprehensible  simply 
because  they  were  familiar:  as,  in  reading  a  foreign 
language,  we  take  the  meaning  of  certain  words  for 
granted  till  the  context  corrects  us.  Often  as,  in  a 
given  case,  her  maternal  musings  had  figured  his  con 
duct,  she  now  found  herself  at  a  loss  to  forecast  it; 
and  with  this  failure  of  intuition  came  a  sense  of  the 
[116] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

subserviency  which  had  hitherto  made  her  counsels 
but  the  anticipation  of  his  wish.  Her  despair  escaped 
in  the  moan,  "What  is  it  you  ask  me?" 

"To  talk  to  her." 

"Talk  to  her?" 

"Show  her — tell  her — make  her  understand  that 
the  paper  has  always  been  a  thing  outside  your  life 
— that  hasn't  touched  you — that  needn't  touch  her. 
Only,  let  her  hear  you — watch  you — be  with  you — 
she'll  see  .  .  .  she  can't  help  seeing.  .  .  ." 

His  mother  faltered.  "But  if  she's  given  you  her 
reasons1 ?" 

"Let  her  give  them  to  you!  If  she  can — when  she 
sees  you.  .  .  ."  His  impatient  hand  again  displaced 
the  wrestler.  "I  care  abominably,"  he  confessed. 

II 

N  the  Fenno  threshold  a  sudden  sense  of  the  f u- 
tility  of  the    attempt  had   almost  driven   Mrs. 
Quentin  back  to  her  carriage ;  but  the  door  was  already 
^opening,  and  a  parlour-maid  who  believed  that  Miss 
Fenno  was  in  led  the  way  to  the  depressing  drawing- 
room.  It  was  the  kind  of  room  in  which  no  member 
of  the  family  is  likely  to  be  found  except  after  din 
ner  or  after  death.  The  chairs  and  tables  looked  like 
poor  relations  who  had  repaid  their  keep  by  a  long 
career  of  grudging  usefulness:  they  seemed  banded 
[117] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

together  against  intruders  in  a  sullen  conspiracy  of 
discomfort.  Mrs.  Quentin,  keenly  susceptible  to  such 
influences,  read  failure  in  every  angle  of  the  up 
holstery.  She  was  incapable  of  the  vulgar  error  of 
thinking  that  Hope  Fenno  might  be  induced  to 
marry  Alan  for  his  money;  but  between  this  assump 
tion  and  the  inference  that  the  girl's  imagination 
might  be  touched  by  the  finer  possibilities  of  wealth, 
good  taste  admitted  a  distinction.  The  Fenno  furni 
ture,  however,  presented  to  such  reasoning  the  ob- 
tuseness  of  its  black-walnut  chamf erings ;  and  some 
thing  in  its  attitude  suggested  that  its  owners  would 
be  as  uncompromising.  The  room  showed  none  of  the 
modern  attempts  at  palliation,  no  apologetic  draping 
of  facts;  and  Mrs.  Quentin,  provisionally  perched  on 
a  green-reps  Gothic  sofa  with  which  it  was  clearly  im 
possible  to  establish  any  closer  relation,  concluded 
that,  had  Mrs.  Fenno  needed  another  seat  of  the  same 
size,  she  would  have  set  out  placidly  to  match  the  one 
on  which  her  visitor  now  languished. 

To  Mrs.  Quentin's  fancy,  Hope  Fenno's  opinions, 
presently  imparted  in  a  clear  young  voice  from  the 
opposite  angle  of  the  Gothic  sofa,  partook  of  the 
character  of  their  surroundings.  The  girl's  mind  was 
like  a  large  light  empty  place,  scantily  furnished 
with  a  few  massive  prejudices,  not  designed  to  add 
to  any  one's  comfort  but  too  ponderous  to  be  easily 

nisi 


THE    QUICKSAND 

moved.  Mrs.  Quentin's  own  intelligence,  in  which  its 
owner,  in  an  artistically  shaded  half-light,  had  so 
long  moved  amid  a  delicate  complexity  of  sensations, 
seemed  in  comparison  suddenly  close  and  crowded; 
and  in  taking  refuge  there  from  the  glare  of  the 
young  girl's  candour,  the  older  woman  found  herself 
stumbling  in  an  unwonted  obscurity.  Her  uneasiness 
resolved  itself  into  a  sense  of  irritation  against  her 
listener.  Mrs.  Quentin  knew  that  the  momentary 
value  of  any  argument  lies  in  the  capacity  of  the 
mind  to  which  it  is  addressed;  and  as  her  shafts  of 
persuasion  spent  themselves  against  Miss  Fenno's 
obduracy,  she  said  to  herself  that,  since  conduct  is 
governed  by  emotions  rather  than  ideas,  the  really 
strong  people  are  those  who  mistake  their  sensations 
for  opinions.  Viewed  in  this  light,  Miss  Fenno  was 
certainly  very  strong:  there  was  an  unmistakable  ring 
of  finality  in  the  tone  with  which  she  declared : 

"It's  impossible." 

Mrs.  Quentin's  answer  veiled  the  least  shade  of 
*  feminine  resentment.  "I  told  Alan  that  where  he  had 
failed  there  was  no  chance  of  my  making  an  im 
pression." 

Hope  Fenno  laid  on  her  visitor's  an  almost  rever 
ential  hand.  "Dear  Mrs.  Quentin,  it's  the  impression 
you  make  that  confirms  the  impossibility." 

Mrs.  Quentin  waited  a  moment:  she  was  perfectly 
[119] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

aware  that,  where  her  feelings  were  concerned,  her 
sense  of  humour  was  not  to  be  relied  on.  "Do  I  make 
such  an  odious  impression?"  she  asked  at  length, 
with  a  smile  that  seemed  to  give  the  girl  her  choice  of 
two  meanings. 

"You  make  such  a  beautiful  one !  It's  too  beautiful 
— it  obscures  my  judgment." 

Mrs.  Quentin  looked  at  her  thoughtfully.  "Would 
it  be  permissible,  I  wonder,  for  an  older  woman  to 
suggest  that,  at  your  age,  it  isn't  always  a  misfortune 
to  have  what  one  calls  one's  judgment  temporarily 
obscured  ?" 

Miss  Fenno  flushed.  "I  try  not  to  judge  others — " 

"You  judge  Alan." 

"Ah,  he  is  not  others,"  she  murmured  with  an  ac 
cent  that  touched  the  older  woman. 

"You  judge  his  mother." 

"I  don't;  I  don't!" 

Mrs.  Quentin  pressed  her  point.  "You  judge  your 
self,  then,  as,  you  would  be  in  my  position — and  your 
verdict  condemns  me." 

"How  can  you  think  it?  It's  because  I  appreciate 
the  difference  in  our  point  of  view  that  I  find  it  so 
difficult  to  defend  myself — " 

"Against  what?" 

"The  temptation  to  imagine  that  I  might  be  as 
you  are — feeling  as  I  do." 

[120] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

Mrs.  Quentin  rose  with  a  sigh.  "My  child,  in  my 
day  love  was  less  subtle."  She  added,  after  a  moment: 
"Alan  is  a  perfect  son." 

"Ah,  that  again — that  makes  it  worse !" 

"Worse?" 

"Just  as  your  goodness  does,  your  sweetness,  your 
immense  indulgence  in  letting  me  discuss  things  with 
you  in  a  way  that  must  seem  almost  an  impertinence." 

Mrs.  Quentin' s  smile  was  not  without  irony.  "You 
must  remember  that  I  do  it  for  Alan." 

"That's  what  I  love  you  for!"  the  girl  instantly 
returned;  and  again  her  tone  touched  her  listener. 

"And  yet  you're  sacrificing  him — and  to  an  idea!" 

"Isn't  it  to  ideas  that  all  the  sacrifices  that  were 
worth  while  have  been  made?" 

"One  may  sacrifice  one's  self." 

Miss  Fenno's  colour  rose.  "That's  what  I'm  doing," 
she  said  gently. 

Mrs.  Quentin  took  her  hand.  "I  believe  you  are," 

she  answered.  "And  it  isn't  true  that  I  speak  only 

^for  Alan.   Perhaps  I  did  when  I  began;  but  now  I 

want  to  plead  for  you  too — against  yourself."   She 

paused,   and  then  went  on  with  a  deeper  note:   "I 

have  let  you,  as  you  say,  speak  your  mind  to  me  in 

terms  that  some  women  might  have  resented,  because 

I  wanted  to  show  you  how  little,  as  the  years  go  on, 

theories,   ideas,   abstract   conceptions   of   life,   weigh 

[121] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

against  the  actual,  against  the  particular  way  in 
which  life  presents  itself  to  us — to  women  especially. 
To  decide  beforehand  exactly  how  one  ought  to  be 
have  in  given  circumstances  is  like  deciding  that  one 
will  follow  a  certain  direction  in  crossing  an  unex 
plored  country.  Afterward  we  find  that  we  must 
turn  out  for  the  obstacles — cross  the  rivers  where 
they're  shallowest — take  the  tracks  that  others  have 
beaten — make  all  sorts  of  unexpected  concessions. 
Life  is  made  up  of  compromises:  that  is  what  youth 
refuses  to  understand.  I've  lived  long  enough  to  doubt 
whether  any  real  good  ever  came  of  sacrificing  beau 
tiful  facts  to  even  more  beautiful  theories.  Do  I  seem 
casuistical?  I  don't  know — there  may  be  losses  either 
way  .  .  .  but  the  love  of  the  man  one  loves  ...  of 
the  child  one  loves  .  .  .  that  makes  up  for  every 
thing.  .  .  ." 

She  had  spoken  with  a  thrill  which  seemed  to  com 
municate  itself  to  the  hand  her  listener  had  left  in 
hers.  Her  eyes  filled  suddenly,  but  through  their  dim 
ness  she  saw  the  girl's  lips  shape  a  last  desperate 
denial:  "Don't  you  see  it's  because  I  feel  all  this  that 
I  mustn't — that  I  can't?" 


[122] 


THE    QUICKSAND 
III 

TV/I"  RS.  QUENTIN,  in  the  late  spring  afternoon, 
•*>*•*•  had  turned  in  at  the  doors  of  the  Metropolitan 
Museum.  She  had  been  walking  in  the  Park,  in  a  soli 
tude  oppressed  by  the  ever-present  sense  of  her  son's 
trouble,  and  had  suddenly  remembered  that  some  one 
had  added  a  Beltraffio  to  the  collection.  It  was  an  old 
habit  of  Mrs.  Quentin's  to  seek  in  the  enjoyment  of 
the  beautiful  the  distraction  that  most  of  her  acquaint 
ances  appeared  to  find  in  each  other's  company.  She 
had  few  friends,  and  their  society  was  welcome  to  her 
only  in  her  more  superficial  moods ;  but  she  could  drug 
anxiety  with  a  picture  as  some  women  can  soothe  it 
with  a  bonnet. 

During  the  six  months  which  had  elapsed  since  her 
visit  to  Miss  Fenno  she  had  been  conscious  of  a  pain 
of  which  she  had  supposed  herself  no  longer  capable: 
as  a  man  will  continue  to  feel  the  ache  of  an  am 
putated  arm.  She  had  fancied  that  all  her  centres  of 
^feeling  had  been  transferred  to  Alan;  but  she  now 
found  herself  subject  to  a  kind  of  dual  suffering,  in 
which  her  individual  pang  was  the  keener  in  that  it 
divided  her  from  her  son's.  Alan  had  surprised  her: 
she  had  not  foreseen  that  he  would  take  a  sentimental 
rebuff  so  hard.  His  disappointment  took  the  uncom 
municative  form  of  a  sterner  application  to  work.  He 
[123] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

threw  himself  into  the  concerns  of  the  Radiator  with 
an  aggressiveness  which  almost  betrayed  itself  in  the 
paper.y  Mrs.  Quentin  never  read  the  Radiator,  but 
from  the  glimpses  of  it  reflected  in  the  other  journals 
she  gathered  that  it  was  at  least  not  being  subjected 
to  the  moral  reconstruction  which  had  been  one  of 
Miss  Fenno's  alternatives. 

Mrs.  Quentin  never  spoke  to  her  son  of  what  had 
happened.  She  was  superior  to  the  cheap  satisfaction 
of  avenging  his  injury  by  depreciating  its  cause.  She 
knew  that  in  sentimental  sorrows  such  consolations 
are  as  salt  in  the  wound.  The  avoidance  of  a  subject 
so  vividly  present  to  both  could  not  but  affect  the 
closeness  of  their  relation.  An  invisible  presence 
hampered  their  liberty  of  speech  and  thought.  The 
girl  was  always  between  them;  and  to  hide  the  sense 
of  her  intrusion  they  began  to  be  less  frequently  to 
gether.  It  was  then  that  Mrs.  Quentin  measured  the 
extent  of  her  isolation.  Had  she  ever  dared  to  fore 
cast  such  a  situation,  she  would  have  proceeded  on 
the  conventional  theory  that  her  son's  suffering  must 
draw  her  nearer  to  him;  and  this  was  precisely  the 
relief  that  was  denied  her.  Alan's  uncommunicative- 
'  ness  extended  below  the  level  of  speech,  and  his 
mother,  reduced  to  the  helplessness  of  dead-reckon 
ing,  had  not  even  the  solace  of  adapting  her  sym 
pathy  to  his  needs.  She  did  not  know  what  he  felt: 
[124] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

his  course  was  incalculable  to  her.  She  sometimes 
wondered  if  she  had  become  as  incomprehensible  to 
him;  and  it  was  to  find  a  moment's  refuge  from  the 
dogging  misery  of  such  conjectures  that  she  had  now 
turned  in  at  the  Museum. 

The  long  line  of  mellow  canvases  seemed  to  receive 
her  into  the  rich  calm  of  an  autumn  twilight.  She 
might  have  been  walking  in  an  enchanted  wood  where 
the  footfall  of  care  never  sounded.  So  deep  was  the 
sense  of  seclusion  that,  as  she  turned  from  her  pro 
longed  communion  with  the  new  Beltraffio,  it  was  a 
surprise  to  find  that  she  was  not  alone. 

A  young  lady  who  had  risen  from  the  central  otto 
man  stood  in  suspended  flight  as  Mrs.  Quentin  faced 
her.  The  older  woman  was  the  first  to  regain  her  self- 
possession. 

"Miss  Fenno!"  she  said. 

The  girl  advanced  with  a  blush.  As  it  faded,  Mrs. 
Quentin  noticed  a  change  in  her.  There  had  always 
been  something  bright  and  bannerlike  in  her  aspect, 
but  now  her  look  drooped,  and  she  hung  at  half- 
mast,  as  it  were.  Mrs.  Quentin,  in  the  embarrassment 
of  surprising  a  secret  that  its  possessor  was  doubtless 
unconscious  of  betraying,  reverted  hurriedly  to  the 
Beltraffio. 

"I  came  to  see  this,"  she  said.  "It's  very  beauti 
ful." 

[125] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

Miss  Fenno's  eye  travelled  incuriously  over  the 
mystic  blue  reaches  of  the  landscape.  "I  suppose  so/' 
she  assented;  adding,  after  another  tentative  pause: 
"You  come  here  often,  don't  you?" 

"Very  often,"  Mrs.  Quentin  answered.  "I  find 
pictures  a  great  help." 

"A  help?" 

"A  rest,  I  mean  ...  if  one  is  tired  or  out  of  sorts." 

"Ah,"  Miss  Fenno  murmured,  looking  down. 

"This  Beltraffio  is  new,  you  know,"  Mrs.  Quentin 
continued.  "What  a  wonderful  background,  isn't  it? 
Is  he  a  painter  who  interests  you  ?" 

The  girl  glanced  again  at  the  dusky  canvas,  as 
though  in  a  final  endeavour  to  extract  from  it  a  clue  to 
the  consolations  of  art.  "I  don't  know,"  she  said  at 
length;  "I'm  afraid  I  don't  understand  pictures." 
She  moved  nearer  to  Mrs.  Quentin  and  held  out  her 
hand. 

"You're  going?" 

"Yes." 

Mrs.  Quentin  looked  at  her.  "Let  me  drive  you 
home,"  she  said,  impulsively.  She  was  feeling,  with  a 
shock  of  surprise,  that  it  gave  her,  after  all,  no  pleas 
ure  to  see  how  much  the  girl  had  suffered. 

Miss  Fenno  stiffened  perceptibly.  "Thank  you;  I 
shall  like  the  walk." 

Mrs.  Quentin  dropped  her  hand  with  a  correspond- 
[126] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

ing  movement  of  withdrawal,  and  a  momentary  wave 
of  antagonism  seemed  to  sweep  the  two  women  apart. 
Then,  as  Mrs.  Quentin,  bowing  slightly,  again  ad 
dressed  herself  to  the  picture,  she  felt  a  sudden  touch 
on  her  arm. 

"Mrs.  Quentin,"  the  girl  faltered,  "I  really  came 
here  because  I  saw  your  carriage."  Her  eyes  sank, 
and  then  fluttered  back  to  her  hearer's  face.  "I've 
been  horribly  unhappy !"  she  exclaimed. 

Mrs.  Quentin  was  silent.  If  Hope  Fenno  had  ex 
pected  an  immediate  response  to  her  appeal,  she  was 
disappointed.  The  older  woman's  face  was  like  a  veil 
dropped  before  her  thoughts. 

"I've  thought  so  often,"  the  girl  went  on  precipi 
tately,  "of  what  you  said  that  day  you  came  to  see 
me  last  autumn.  I  think  I  understand  now  what  you 
meant — what  you  tried  to  make  me  see.  .  .  .  Oh, 
Mrs.  Quentin,"  she  broke  out,  "I  didn't  mean  to  tell 
you  this — I  never  dreamed  of  it  till  this  moment — 
but  you  do  remember  what  you  said,  don't  you?  You 
must  remember  it!  And  now  that  I've  met  you  in 
this  way,  I  can't  help  telling  you  that  I  believe — I 
begin  to  believe — that  you  were  quite  right,  after  all." 

Mrs.  Quentin  had  listened  without  moving;  but  now 
she  raised  her  eyes  with  a  slight  smile.  "Do  you  wish 
me  to  say  this  to  Alan?"  she  asked. 

The  girl  flushed,  but  her  glance  braved  the  smile. 
[127] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

"Would  he  still  care  to  hear  it?"  she  said  fearlessly. 

Mrs.  Quentin  took  momentary  refuge  in  a  renewed 
inspection  of  the  Beltraffio;  then,  turning,  she  said, 
with  a  kind  of  reluctance:  "He  would  still  care." 

"Ah !"  broke  from  the  girl. 

During  this  exchange  of  words  the  two  speakers 
had  drifted  unconsciously  toward  one  of  the  benches. 
Mrs.  Quentin  glanced  about  her:  a  custodian  who 
had  been  hovering  in  the  doorway  sauntered  into  the 
adjoining  gallery,  and  they  remained  alone  among 
the  silvery  Vandykes  and  flushed  bituminous  Halses. 
Mrs.  Quentin  sank  down  on  the  bench  and  reached  a 
hand  to  the  girl. 

"Sit  by  me,"  she  said. 

Miss  Fenno  dropped  beside  her.  In  both  women 
the  stress  of  emotion  was  too  strong  for  speech.  The 
girl  was  still  trembling,  and  Mrs.  Quentin  was  the 
first  to  regain  her  composure. 

"You  say  you've  suffered,"  she  began  at  last.  "Do 
you  suppose  /  haven't?" 

"I  knew  you  had.  That  made  it  so  much  worse  for 
me — that  I  should  have  been  the  cause  of  your  suf 
fering  for  Alan!" 

Mrs.  Quentin  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Not  for  Alan 
only,"  she  said.  Miss  Fenno  turned  on  'her  a  won 
dering  glance.  "Not  for  Alan  only.  That  pain  every 
woman  expects — and  knows  how  to  bear.  We  all  know 
[128] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

our  children  must  have  such  disappointments,  and  to 
suffer  with  them  is  not  the  deepest  pain.  It's  the  suf 
fering  apart — in  ways  they  don't  understand."  She 
breathed  deeply.  "I  want  you  to  know  what  I  mean. 
You  were  right — that  day — and  I  was  wrong." 

"Oh"  the  girl  faltered. 

Mrs.  Quentin  went  on  in  a  voice  of  passionate 
lucidity.  "I  knew  it  then — I  knew  it  even  while  I  was 
trying  to  argue  with  you — I've  always  known  it!  I  / 
didn't  want  my  son  to  marry  you  till  I  heard  your 
reasons  for  refusing  him;  and  then — then  I  longed 
to  see  you  his  wife!" 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Quentin!" 

"I  longed  for  it;  but  I  knew  it  mustn't  be." 

"Mustn't  be?" 

Mrs.  Quentin  shook  her  head  sadly,  and  the  girl, 
gaining  courage  from  this  mute  negation,  cried  with 
an  uncontrollable  escape  of  feeling: 

"It's  because  you  thought  me  hard,  obstinate,  nar 
row-minded  ?  Oh,  I  understand  that  so  well !  My  self - 
righteousness  must  have  seemed  so  petty !  A  girl  who 
could  sacrifice  a  man's  future  to  her  own  moral  van 
ity — for  it  was  a  form  of  vanity;  you  showed  me  that 
plainly  enough — how  you  must  have  despised  me! 
But  I  am  not  that  girl  now — indeed  I'm  not.  I'm  not 
impulsive — I  think  things  out.  I've  thought  this  out. 
I  know  Alan  loves  me — I  know  how  he  loves  me — and 
[129] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

I  believe  I  can  help  him — oh,  not  in  the  ways  I  had 
fancied  before — but  just  merely  by  loving  him."  She 
paused,  but  Mrs.  Quentin  made  no  sign.  "I  see  it  all 
so  differently  now.  I  see  what  an  influence  love  itself 
may  be — how  my  believing  in  him,  loving  him,  ac 
cepting  him  just  as  he  is,  might  help  him  more  than 
any  theories,  any  arguments.  I  might  have  seen  this 
long  ago  in  looking  at  you — as  he  often  told  me — • 
in  seeing  how  you'd  kept  yourself  apart  from — from 
— Mr.  Quentin's  work  and  his — been  always  the 
beautiful  side  of  life  to  them — kept  their  faith  alive 
in  spite  of  themselves — not  by  interfering,  preach 
ing,  reforming,  but  by — just  loving  them  and  being 
there — "  She  looked  at  Mrs.  Quentin  with  a  simple 
nobleness.  "It  isn't  as  if  I  cared  for  the  money,  you 
know;  if  I  cared  for  that,  I  should  be  afraid — " 

"You  will  care  for  it  in  time,"  Mrs.  Quentin  said 
"suddenly. 

Miss  Fenno  drew  back,  releasing  her  hand.  "In 
time?" 

"Yes;  when  there's  nothing  else  left."  She  stared 
a  moment  at  the  pictures.  "My  poor  child,"  she  broke 
out,  "I've  heard  all  you  say  so  often  before!" 

"You've  heard  it?" 

"Yes — from  myself.  I  felt  as  you  do,  I  argued  as 
you  do,  I  acted  as  I  mean  to  prevent  your  doing,  when 
I  married  Alan's  father." 


THE    QUICKSAND 

The  long  empty  gallery  seemed  to  reverberate  with 
the  girl's  startled  exclamation — "Oh,  Mrs.  Quentin — " 
"Hush;  let  me  speak.  Do  you  suppose  I'd  do  this 
if  you  were  the  kind  of  pink-and-white  idiot  he  ought 
to  have  married?  It's  because  I  see  you're  alive,  as  I 
was,  tingling  with  beliefs,  ambitions,  energies,  as  I 
was — that  I  can't  see  you  walled  up  alive,  as  I  was, 
without  stretching  out  a  hand  to  save  you!"  She  sat 
gazing  rigidly  forward,  her  eyes  on  the  pictures, 
speaking  in  the  low  precipitate  tone  of  one  who  tries 
to  press  the  meaning  of  a  lifetime  into  a  few  breath 
less  sentences. 

"When  I  met  Alan's  father,"  she  went  on,  "I  knew 
nothing  of  his — his  work.  We  met  abroad,  where  I 
had  been  living  with  my  mother.  That  was  twenty- 
six  years  ago,  when  the  Radiator  was  less — less  no 
torious  than  it  is  now.  I  knew  my  husband  owned  a 
newspaper — a  great  newspaper — and  nothing  more. 
I  had  never  seen  a  copy  of  the  Radiator;  I  had  no 
notion  what  it  stood  for,  in  politics — or  in  other  ways. 
'We  were  married  in  Europe,  and  a  few  months  after 
ward  we  came  to  live  here.  People  were  already  be 
ginning  to  talk  about  the  Radiator.  My  husband,  on 
leaving  college,  had  bought  it  with  some  money  an 
old  uncle  had  left  him,  and  the  public  at  first  was 
merely  curious  to  see  what  an  ambitious,  stirring 
young  man  without  any  experience  of  journalism  was 
[131] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

going  to  make  out  of  his  experiment.  They  found  first 
of  all  that  he  was  going  to  make  a  great  deal  of  money 
out  of  it.  I  found  that  out  too.  I  was  so  happy  in 
other  ways  that  it  didn't  make  much  difference  at 
first;  though  it  was  pleasant  to  be  able  to  help  my 
mother,  to  be  generous  and  charitable,  to  live  in  a 
nice  house,  and  wear  the  handsome  gowns  he  liked 
to  see  me  in.  But  still  it  didn't  really  count — it  counted 
so  little  that  when,  one  day,  I  learned  what  the 
Radiator  was,  I  would  have  gone  out  into  the  streets 
barefooted  rather  than  live  another  hour  on  the  money 
it  brought  in.  .  .  ."  Her  voice  sank,  and  she  paused  to 
steady  it.  The  girl  at  her  side  did  not  speak  or  move. 
"I  shall  never  forget  that  day,"  she  began  again. 
"The  paper  had  stripped  bare  some  family  scandal — 
some  miserable  bleeding  secret  that  a  dozen  unhappy 
people  had  been  struggling  to  keep  out  of  print — 
that  would  have  been  kept  out  if  my  huband  had 
not — Oh,  you  must  guess  the  rest !  I  can't  go  on !" 

She  felt  a  hand  on  hers.  "You  mustn't  go  on,"  the 
girl  whispered. 

"Yes,  I  must — I  must!  You  must  be  made  to  un 
derstand."  She  drew  a  deep  breath.  "My  husband 
was  not  like  Alan.  When  he  found  out  how  I  felt 
about  it  he  was  surprised  at  first — but  gradually  he 
began  to  see — or  at  least  I  fancied  he  saw — the  hate- 
fulness  of  it.  At  any  rate  he  saw  how  I  suffered,  and 
[132] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

he  offered  to  give  up  the  whole  thing — to  sell  the 
paper.  It  couldn't  be  done  all  of  a  sudden,  of  course 
— he  made  me  see  that — for  he  had  put  all  his  money 
in  it,  and  he  had  no  special  aptitude  for  any  other 
kind  of  work.  He  was  a  born  journalist — like  Alan. 
It  was  a  great  sacrifice  for  him  to  give  up  the  paper, 
but  he  promised  to  do  it — in  time — when  a  good  op 
portunity  offered.  Meanwhile,  of  course,  he  wanted 
to  build  it  up,  to  increase  the  circulation — and  to  do 
that  he  had  to  keep  on  in  the  same  way — he  made 
that  clear  to  me.  I  saw  that  we  were  in  a  vicious  cir 
cle.  The  paper,  to  sell  well,  had  to  be  made  more 
and  more  detestable  and  disgraceful.  At  first  I  re 
belled — but  somehow — I  can't  tell  you  how  it  was — 
after  that  first  concession  the  ground  seemed  to  give 
under  me:  with  every  struggle  I  sank  deeper.  And 
then — then  Alan  was  born.  He  was  such  a  delicate 
baby  that  there  was  very  little  hope  of  saving  him. 
But  money  did  it — the  money  from  the  paper.  I  took 
him  abroad  to  see  the  best  physicians — I  took  him  to 
,a  warm  climate   every  winter.    In  hot  weather  the 
doctors  recommended  sea  air,  and  we  had  a  yacht 
and  cruised  every  summer.   I   owed  his  life  to  the 
Radiator.  And  when  he  began  to  grow  stronger  the 
habit  was  formed — the  habit  of  luxury.  He  could  not 
get  on  without  the  things  he  had  always  been  used 
to.  He  pined  in  bad  air;  he  droopeS  under  monotony 
[133] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

and  discomfort;  he  throve  on  variety,  amusement, 
travel,  every  kind  of  novelty  and  excitement.  And  all 
J  wanted  for  him  his  inexhaustible  foster-mother  was 
there  to  give! 

"My  husband  said  nothing,  but  he  must  have  seen 
how  things  were  going.  There  was  no  more  talk  of 
giving  up  the  Radiator.  He  never  reproached  me  with 
my  inconsistency,  but  I  thought  he  must  despise  me, 
and  the  thought  made  me  reckless.  I  determined  to 
ignore  the  paper  altogether — to  take  what  it  gave  as 
though  I  didn't  know  where  it  came  from.  And  to  ex 
cuse  this  I  invented  the  theory  that  one  may,  so  to 
speak,  purify  money  by  putting  it  to  good  uses.  I 
gave  away  a  great  deal  in  charity — I  indulged  my 
self  very  little  at  first.  All  the  money  that  was  not 
spent  on  Alan  I  tried  to  do  good  with.  But  gradually, 
as  my  boy  grew  up,  the  problem  became  more  com 
plicated.  How  was  I  to  protect  Alan  from  the  con 
tamination  I  had  let  him  live  in?  I  couldn't  preach 
by  example — couldn't  hold  up  his  father  as  a  warn 
ing,  or  denounce  the  money  we  were  living  on.  All 
I  could  do  was  to  disguise  the  inner  ugliness  of  life 
by  making  it  beautiful  outside — to  build  a  wall  of 
beauty  between  him  and  the  facts  of  life,  turn  his 
tastes  and  interests  another  way,  hide  the  Radiator 
from  him  as  a  smiling  woman  at  a  ball  may  hide  a 
cancer  in  her  breast!  Just  as  Alan  was  entering  col- 
[184] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

lege  his  father  died.  Then  I  saw  my  way  clear.  I 
had  loved  my  husband — and  yet  I  drew  my  first  free 
breath  in  years.  For  the  Radiator  had  been  left  to 
Alan  outright — there  was  nothing  on  earth  to  pre 
vent  his  selling  it  when  he  came  of  age.  And  there 
was  no  excuse  for  his  not  selling  it.  I  had  brought 
him  up  to  depend  on  money,  but  the  paper  had  given 
us  enough  money  to  gratify  all  his  tastes.  At  last  we 
could  turn  on  the  monster  that  had  nourished  us.  I 
felt  a  savage  joy  in  the  thought — I  could  hardly 
bear  to  wait  till  Alan  came  of  age.  But  I  had  never 
spoken  to  him  of  the  paper,  and  I  didn't  dare  speak 
of  it  now.  Some  false  shame  kept  me  back,  some  vague 
belief  in  his  ignorance.  I  would  wait  till  lie  was  twen 
ty-one,  and  then  we  should  be  free. 

"I  waited — the  day  came,  and  I  spoke.  You  can 
guess  his  answer,  I  suppose.  He  had  no  idea  of  sell 
ing  the  Radiator.  It  wasn't  the  money  he  cared  for 
— it  was  the  career  that  tempted  him.  He  was  a  born 
journalist,  and  his  ambition,  ever  since  he  could  re 
member,  had  been  to  carry  on  his  father's  work,  to 
develop,  to  surpass  it.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world 
as  interesting  as  modern  journalism.  He  couldn't 
imagine  any  other  kind  of  life  that  wouldn't  bore 
him  to  death.  A  newspaper  like  the  Radiator  might 
be  made  one  of  the  biggest  powers  on  earth,  and  he 
loved  power,  and  meant  to  have  all  he  could  get.  I 
[135] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

listened  to  him  in  a  kind  of  trance.  I  couldn't  find 
a  word  to  say.  His  father  had  had  scruples — he  had 
none.  I  seemed  to  realise  at  once  that  argument  would 
be  useless.  I  don't  know  that  I  even  tried  to  plead 
with  him — he  was  so  bright  and  hard  and  inacces 
sible  !  Then  I  saw  that  he  was,  after  all,  what  I  had 
made  him — the  creature  of  my  concessions,  my  con 
nivances,  my  evasions.  That  was  the  price  I  had  paid 
for  him — I  had  kept  him  at  that  cost! 

"Well— I  had  kept  him,  at  any  rate.  That  was  the 
feeling  that  survived.  He  was  my  boy,  my  son,  my 
very  own — till  some  other  woman  took  him.  Mean 
while  the  old  life  must  go  on  as  it  could.  I  gave  up 
the  struggle.  If  at  that  point  he  was  inaccessible,  at 
others  he  was  close  to  me.  He  has  always  been  a  per 
fect  son.  Our  tastes  grew  together — we  enjoyed  the 
same  books,  the  same  pictures,  the  same  people.  All 
I  had  to  do  was  to  look  at  him  in  profile  to  see  the 
side  of  him  that  was  really  mine.  At  first  I  kept  think 
ing  of  the  dreadful  other  side — but  gradually  the  im 
pression  faded,  and  I  kept  my  mind  turned  from  it, 
as  one  does  from  a  deformity  in  a  face  one  loves.  I 
thought  I  had  made  my  last  compromise  with  life — 
had  hit  on  a  modus  Vivendi  that  would  last  my  time. 

"And  then  he  met  you.  I  had  always  been  prepared 
for  his  marrying,  but  not  a  girl  like  you.  I  thought 
he  would  choose  a  sweet  thing  who  would  never  pry 
[136] 


THE    QUICKSAND 

into  his  closets  —  he  hated  women  with  ideas  !  But  as 
soon  as  I  saw  you  I  knew  the  struggle  would  have  to 
begin  again.  He  is  so  much  stronger  than  his  father 
—  he  is  full  of  the  most  monstrous  convictions.  And 
he  has  the  courage  of  them,  too  —  you  saw  last  year 
that  his  love  for  you  never  made  him  waver.  He  be 
lieves  in  his  work  ;  he  adores  it  —  it  is  a  kind  of  hideous 
idol  to  which  he  would  make  human  sacrifices  !  He 
loves  you  still  —  I've  been  honest  with  you  —  but  his 
love  wouldn't  change  him.  It  is  you  who  would  have 
to  change  —  to  die  gradually,  as  I  have  died,  till  there 
is  only  one  live  point  left  in  me.  Ah,  if  one  died  com 
pletely  —  that's  simple  enough!  But  something  per 
sists  —  remember  that  —  a  single  point,  an  aching 
nerve  of  truth.  Now  and  then  you  may  drug  it  —  but 
a  touch  wakes  it  again,  as  your  face  has  waked  it  in 
me.  There's  always  enough  of  one's  old  self  left  to 
suffer  with.  .  .  ." 

She  stood  up  and  faced  the  girl  abruptly.  "What 
shall  I  tell  Alan?"  she  said. 

*  Miss  Fenno  sat  motionless,  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 
Twilight  was  falling  on  the  gallery  —  a  twilight  which 
seemed  to  emanate  not  so  much  from  the  glass  dome 
overhead  as  from  the  crepuscular  depths  into  which 
the  faces  of  the  pictures  were  receding.  The  cus 
todian's  step  sounded  warningly  down  the  corridor. 
When  the  girl  looked  up  she  was  alone. 


THE    DILETTANTE 


THE    DILETTANTE 

IT  was  on  an  impulse  hardly  needing  the  argu 
ments  he  found  himself  advancing  in  its  favour, 
that  Thursdale,  on  his  way  to  the  club,  turned  as 
usual  into  Mrs.  Vervain's  street. 

The  "as  usual "  was  his  own  qualification  of  the 
act;  a  convenient  way  of  bridging  the  interval — in 
days  and  other  sequences — that  lay  between  this  visit 
and  the  last.  It  was  characteristic  of  him  that  he  in 
stinctively  excluded  his  call  two  days  earlier,  with 
Ruth  Gaynor,  from  the  list  of  his  visits  to  Mrs.  Ver 
vain:  the  special  conditions  attending  it  had  made  it 
no  more  like  a  visit  to  Mrs.  Vervain  than  an  engraved 
dinner  invitation  is  like  a  personal  letter.  Yet  it  was 
to  talk  over  his  call  with  Miss  Gaynor  that  he  was 
now  returning  to  the  scene  of  that  episode;  and  it 
was  because  Mrs.  Vervain  could  be  trusted  to  handle 
the  talking  over  as  skilfully  as  the  interview  itself 
that,  at  her  corner,  he  had  felt  the  dilettante's  irre 
sistible  craving  to  take  a  last  look  at  a  work  of  art 
that  was  passing  out  of  his  possession. 

On  the  whole,  he  knew  no  one  better  fitted  to  deal 

with  the  unexpected  than  Mrs.  Vervain.  She  excelled 

in  the  rare  art   of  taking  things   for  granted,   and 

Thursdale  felt  a  pardonable  pride  in  the  thought  that 

[141] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

she  owed  her  excellence  to  his  training.  Early  in  his 
career  Thursdale  had  made  the  mistake,  at  the  out 
set  of  his  acquaintance  with  a  lady,  of  telling  her  that 
he  loved  her  and  exacting  the  same  avowal  in  return. 
The  latter  part  of  that  episode  had  been  like  the  long 
walk  back  from  a  picnic,  when  one  has  to  carry  all 
the  crockery  one  has  finished  using:  it  was  the  last 

time  Thursdale  ever  allowed  himself  to  be  encumbered 
fa"  / 

with  the  debris  of  a  feast.  He  thus  incidentally  learned 

that  the  privilege  of  loving  her  is  one  of  the  least  fa 
vours  that  a  charming  woman  can  accord ;  and  in  seek 
ing  to  avoid  the  pitfalls  of  sentiment  he  had  devel 
oped  a  science  of  evasion  in  which  the  woman  of  the 
moment  became  a  mere  implement  of  the  game.  He 
owed  a  great  deal  of  delicate  enjoyment  to  the  culti 
vation  of  this  art.  The  perils  from  which  it  had  been 
his  refuge  became  naively  harmless:  was  it  possible 
that  he  who  now  took  his  easy  way  along  the  levels 
had  once  preferred  to  gasp  on  the  raw  heights  of  emo 
tion  ?  Youth  is  a  high-coloured  season ;  but  he  had  the 
satisfaction  of  feeling  that  he  had  entered  earlier  than 
most  into  that  chairo-oscuro  of  sensation  where  every 
half-tone  has  its  value. 

As  a  promoter  of  this  pleasure  no  one  he  had  known 
was  comparable  to  Mrs.  Vervain.   He  had  taught  a 
good  many  women  not  to  betray  their  feelings,  but 
he  had  never  before  had  such  fine  material  to  work 
[142] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

in.  She  had  been  surprisingly  crude  when  he  first 
knew  her;  capable  of  making  the  most  awkward  in 
ferences,  of  plunging  through  thin  ice,  of  recklessly 
undressing  her  emotions ;  but  she  had  acquired,  under 
the  discipline  of  his  reticences  and  evasions,  a  skill  al 
most  equal  to  his  own,  and  perhaps  more  remarkable 
in  that  it  involved  keeping  time  with  any  tune  he 
played  and  reading  at  sight  some  uncommonly  diffi 
cult  passages. 

It  had  taken  Thursdale  seven  years  to  form  this 
fine  talent;  but  the  result  justified  the  effort.  At  the 
crucial  moment  she  had  been  perfect:  her  way  of 
„  greeting  Miss  Gaynor  had  made  him  regret  that  he 
had  announced  his  engagement  by  letter.  It  was  an 
evasion  that  confessed  a  difficulty;  a  deviation  imply 
ing  an  obstacle,  where,  by  common  consent,  it  was 
agreed  to  see  none;  it  betrayed,  in  short,  a  lack  of 
confidence  in  the  completeness  of  his  method.  It  had 
been  his  pride  never  to  put  himself  in  a  position  which 
had  to  be  quitted,  as  it  were,  by  the  back  door;  but 
[jere,  as  he  perceived,  the  main  portals  would  have 
opened  for  him  of  their  own  accord.  All  this,  and  much 
more,  he  read  in  the  finished  naturalness  with  which 
Mrs.  Vervain  had  met  Miss  Gaynor.  He  had  never 
seen  a  better  piece  of  work:  there  was  no  over-eager 
ness,  no  suspicious  warmth,  above  all  (and  this  gave 
her  art  the  grace  of  a  natural  quality)  there  were 
[143] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

none  of  those  damnable  implications  whereby  a 
woman,  in  welcoming  her  friend's  betrothed,  may 
keep  him  on  pins  and  needles  while  she  laps  the  lady 
in  complacency.  So  masterly  a  performance,  indeed, 
hardly  needed  the  offset  of  Miss  Gaynor's  door-step 
words — "To  be  so  kind  to  me,  how  she  must  have 
liked  you!" — though  he  caught  himself  wishing  it 
lay  within  the  bounds  of  fitness  to  transmit  them,  as 
a  final  tribute,  to  the  one  woman  he  knew  who  was  un 
failingly  certain  to  enjoy  a  good  thing.  It  was  per 
haps  the  one  drawback  to  his  new  situation  that  it 
might  develop  good  things  which  it  would  be  impos 
sible  to  hand  on  to  Margaret  Vervain. 

The  fact  that  he  had  made  the  mistake  of  under 
rating  his  friend's  powers,  the  consciousness  that  his 
writing  must  have  betrayed  his  distrust  of  her  effi 
ciency,  seemed  an  added  reason  for  turning  down  her 
street  instead  of  going  on  to  the  club.  He  would  show 
her  that  he  knew  how  to  value  her;  he  would  ask  her 
to  achieve  with  him  a  feat  infinitely  rarer  and  more 
delicate  than  the  one  he  had  appeared  to  avoid.  In 
cidentally,  he  would  also  dispose  of  the  interval  of 
time  before  dinner:  ever  since  he  had  seen  Miss  Gay- 
nor  oiF,  an  hour  earlier,  on  her  return  journey  to 
Buffalo,  he  had  been  wondering  how  he  should  put  in 
the  rest  of  the  afternoon.  It  was  absurd,  how  he 
missed  the  girl.  .  .  .  Yes,  that  was  it:  the  desire  to  talk, 
[  144] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

about  her  was,  after  all,  at  the  bottom  of  his  im 
pulse  to  call  on  Mrs.  Vervain!  It  was  absurd,  if  you 
like — but  it  was  delightfully  rejuvenating.  He  could 
recall  the  time  when  he  had  been  afraid  of  being 
obvious:  now  he  felt  that  this  return  to  the  primitive 
emotions  might  be  as  restorative  as  a  holiday  in  the 
Canadian  woods.  And  it  was  precisely  by  the  girl's 
candour,  her  directness,  her  lack  of  complications,  that 
he  was  taken.  The  sense  that  she  might  say  something 
rash  at  any  moment  was  positively  exhilarating:  if 
she  had  thrown  her  arms  about  him  at  the  station  he 
would  not  have  given  a  thought  to  his  crumpled  dig 
nity.  It  surprised  Thursdale  to  find  what  freshness  of 
heart  he  brought  to  the  adventure;  and  though  his 
sense  of  irony  prevented  his  ascribing  his  intactness  to 
any  conscious  purpose,  he  could  but  rejoice  in  the  fact 
that  his  sentimental  economies  had  left  him  such  a 
large  surplus  to  draw  upon. 

Mrs.  Vervain  was  at  home — as  usual.  When  one 
visits  the  cemetery  one  expects  to  find  the  angel  on 
the  tombstone,  and  it  struck  Thursdale  as  another 
proof  of  his  friend's  good  taste  that  she  had  been  in 
no  undue  haste  to  change  her  habits.  The  whole  house 
appeared  to  count  on  his  coming;  the  footman  took 
his  hat  and  overcoat  as  naturally  as  though  there  had 
been  no  lapse  in  his  visits;  and  the  drawing-room  at 
once  enveloped  him  in  that  atmosphere  of  tacit  intel- 
[145] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

ligence  which  Mrs.  Vervain  imparted  to  her  very  fur 
niture. 

It  was  a  surprise  that,  in  this  general  harmony  of 
circumstances,  Mrs.  Vervain  should  herself  sound  the 
first  false  note. 

"You?"  she  exclaimed;  and  the  book  she  held 
slipped  from  her  hand. 

It  was  crude,  certainly;  unless  it  were  a  touch  of 
the  finest  art.  The  difficulty  of  classifying  it  dis 
turbed  Thursdale's  balance. 

"Why  not?"  he  said,  restoring  the  book.  "Isn't  it 
my  hour?"  And  as  she  made  no  answer,  he  added 
gently,  "Unless  it's  some  one  else's?" 

She  laid  the  book  aside  and  sank  back  into  her 
chair.  "Mine,  merely,"  she  said. 

"I  hope  that  doesn't  mean  that  you're  unwilling  to 
share  it?" 

"With  you?  By  no  means.  You're  welcome  to  my 
last  crust." 

He  looked  at  her  reproachfully.  "Do  you  call  this 
the  last?" 

She  smiled  as  he  dropped  into  the  seat  across  the 
hearth.  "It's  a  way  of  giving  it  more  flavour !" 

He  returned  the  smile.  "A  visit  to  you  doesn't  need 
such  condiments." 

She  took  this  with  just  the  right  measure  of  retro 
spective  amusement. 

[146] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

"Ah,  but  I  want  to  put  into  this  one  a  very  special 
taste/*  she  confessed. 

Her  smile  was  so  confident,  so  reassuring,  that  it 
lulled  him  into  the  imprudence  of  saying:  "Why 
should  you  want  it  to  be  different  from  what  was 
always  so  perfectly  right?" 

She  hesitated.  "Doesn't  the  fact  that  it's  the  last 
constitute  a  difference?" 

"The  last— my  last  visit  to  you?" 

"Oh,  metaphorically,  I  mean — there's  a  break  in 
the  continuity." 

Decidedly,  she  was  pressing  too  hard:  unlearning 
his  arts  already! 

"I  don't  recognise  it,"  he  said.  "Unless  you  make 
me — "  he  added,  with  a  note  that  slightly  stirred  her 
attitude  of  languid  attention. 

She  turned  to  him  with  grave  eyes.  "You  recog 
nise  no  difference  whatever?" 

"None — except  an  added  link  in  the  chain." 

"An  added  link?" 

-*  "In  having  one  more  thing  to  like  you  for — your 
letting  Miss  Gaynor  see  why  I  had  already  so  many." 
He  flattered  himself  that  this  turn  had  taken  the  least 
hint  of  fatuity  from  the  phrase. 

Mrs.  Vervain  sank  into  her  former  easy  pose. 
"Was  it  that  you  came  for?"  she  asked,  almost  gaily. 

"If  it  is  necessary  to  have  a  reason — that  was  one." 
[147] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

"To  talk  to  me  about  Miss  Gaynor?" 

"To  tell  you  how  she  talks  about  you." 

"That  will  be  very  interesting — especially  if  you 
have  seen  her  since  her  second  visit  to  me/* 

"Her  second  visit?"  Thursdale  pushed  his  chair 
back  with  a  start  and  moved  to  another.  "She  came 
to  see  you  again?" 

"This  morning,  yes — by  appointment." 

He  continued  to  look  at  her  blankly.  "You  sent  for 
her?" 

"I  didn't  have  to — she  wrote  and  asked  me  last 
night.  But  no  doubt  you  have  seen  her  since." 

Thursdale  sat  silent.  He  was  trying  to  separate  his 
words  from  his  thoughts,  but  they  still  clung  to 
gether  inextricably.  "I  saw  her  off  just  now  at  the 
station." 

"And  she  didn't  tell  you  that  she  had  been  here 
again?" 

"There  was  hardly  time,  I  suppose — there  were 
people  about — "  he  floundered. 

"Ah,  she'll  write,  then." 

He  regained  his  composure.  "Of  course  she'll 
write :  very  often,  I  hope.  You  know  I'm  absurdly  in 
love,"  he  cried  audaciously. 

She  tilted  her  head  back,  looking  up  at  him  as  he 
leaned  against  the  chimney-piece.  He  had  leaned  there 
so  often  that  the  attitude  touched  a  pulse  which  set 
[148] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

up  a  throbbing  in  her  throat.  "Oh,  my  poor  Thurs- 
dale !"  she  murmured. 

"I  suppose  it's  rather  ridiculous/'  he  owned;  and 
as  she  remained  silent,  he  added,  with  a  sudden 
break — "Or  have  you  another  reason  for  pitying 
me?" 

Her  answer  was  another  question.  "Have  you  been 
back  to  your  rooms  since  you  left  her  ?" 

"Since  I  left  her  at  the  station?  I  came  straight 
here." 

"Ah,  yes — you  could:  there  was  no  reason — "  Her 
words  passed  into  a  silent  musing. 

Thursdale  moved  nervously  nearer.  "You  said  you 
had  something  to  tell  me  ?" 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  let  her  do  so.  There  may  be 
a  letter  at  your  rooms." 

"A  letter?  What  do  you  mean?  A  letter  from 
her?  What  has  happened?" 

His  paleness  shook  her,  and  she  raised  a  hand  of 
reassurance.  "Nothing  has  happened — perhaps  that 
is  just  the  worst  of  it.  You  always  hated,  you  know," 
she  added  incoherently,  "to  have  things  happen:  you 
never  would  let  them." 

"And  now—?" 

"Well,  that  was  what  she  came  here  for:  I  sup 
posed  you  had  guessed.  To  know  if  anything  had 
happened." 

[149] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

"Had  happened?"  He  gazed  at  her  slowly.  "Be 
tween  you  and  me?"  he  said  with  a  rush  of  light. 

The  words  were  so  much  cruder  than  any  that  had 
ever  passed  between  them,  that  the  colour  rose  to  her 
face;  but  she  held  his  startled  gaze. 

"You  know  girls  are  not  quite  as  unsophisticated 
as  they  used  to  be.  Are  you  surprised  that  such  an 
idea  should  occur  to  her?" 

His  own  colour  answered  hers :  it  was  the  only  reply 
that  came  to  him. 

Mrs.  Vervain  went  on  smoothly:  "I  supposed  it 
might  have  struck  you  that  there  were  times  when  we 
presented  that  appearance." 

He  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "A  man's  past  is 
his  own!" 

"Perhaps — it  certainly  never  belongs  to  the  woman 
who  has  shared  it.  But  one  learns  such  truths  only  by 
experience;  and  Miss  Gaynor  is  naturally  inexpe 
rienced." 

"Of  course — but — supposing  her  act  a  natural 
one — "  he  floundered  lamentably  among  his  innuen 
does — "I  still  don't  see — how  there  was  anything — " 

"Anything  to  take  hold  of?  There  wasn't — " 

"Well,  then — ?"  escaped  him,  in  undisguised  sat 
isfaction;  but  as  she  did  not  complete  the  sentence  he 
went  on  with  a  faltering  laugh:  "She  can  hardly  ob 
ject  to  the  existence  of  a  mere  friendship  between 
us!" 

[150] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

"But  she  does,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain. 

Thursdale  stood  perplexed.  He  had  seen,  on  the 
previous  day,  no  trace  of  jealousy  or  resentment  in 
'his  betrothed:  he  could  still  hear  the  candid  ring  of 
the  girl's  praise  of  Mrs.  Vervain.  If  she  were  such  an 
abyss  of  insincerity  as  to  dissemble  distrust  under 
such  frankness,  she  must  at  least  be  more  subtle  than 
to  bring  her  doubts  to  her  rival  for  solution.  The  sit 
uation  seemed  one  through  which  one  could  no  longer 
move  in  a  penumbra,  and  he  let  in  a  burst  of  light 
with  the  direct  query:  "Won't  you  explain  what  you 
mean?" 

Mrs.  Vervain  sat  silent,  not  provokingly,  as  though 
to  prolong  his  distress,  but  as  if,  in  the  attenuated 
phraseology  he  had  taught  her,  it  was  difficult  to  find 
words  robust  enough  to  meet  his  challenge.  It  was 
the  first  time  he  had  ever  asked  her  to  explain  any- 
thing;  and  she  had  lived  so  long  in  dread  of  offering 
elucidations  which  were  not  wanted,  that  she  seemed 
unable  to  produce  one  on  the  spot. 

At  last  she  said  slowly:  "She  came  to  find  out  if 
you  were  really  free." 

Thursdale  coloured  again.  "Free?"  he  stammered, 
with  a  sense  of  physical  disgust  at  contact  with  such 
crassness. 

"Yes — if  I  had  quite  done  with  you."  She  smiled 
in  recovered  security.  "It  seems  she  likes  clear  out 
lines;  she  'has  a  passion  for  definitions." 
[151] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

"Yes — well?"  he  said,  wincing  at  the  echo  of  his 
own  subtlety. 

"Well — and  when  I  told  her  that  you  had  never 
belonged  to  me,  she  wanted  me  to  define  my  status — 
to  know  exactly  where  I  had  stood  all  along." 

Thursdale  sat  gazing  at  her  intently;  his  hand  was 
not  yet  on  the  clue.  "And  even  when  you  had  told  her 
that—" 

"Even  when  I  had  told  her  that  I  had  had  no 
status — that  I  had  never  stood  anywhere,  in  any  sense 
she  meant,"  said  Mrs.  Vervain,  slowly — "even  then 
she  wasn't  satisfied,  it  seems." 

He  uttered  an  uneasy  exclamation.  "She  didn't  be 
lieve  you,  you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  she  did  believe  me:  too  thoroughly." 

"Well,  then— in  God's  name,  what  did  she  want?" 

"Something  more — those  were  the  words  she  used." 

"Something  more?  Between — between  you  and  me? 
Is  it  a  conundrum?"  He  laughed  awkwardly. 

"Girls  are  not  what  they  were  in  my  day;  they 
are  no  longer  forbidden  to  contemplate  the  relation 
of  the  sexes." 

"So  it  seems!"  he  commented.  "But  since,  in  this 
case,  there  wasn't  any — "  he  broke  off,  catching  the 
dawn  of  a  revelation  in  her  gaze. 

"That's  just  it.  The  unpardonable  offence  has  been 
— in  our  not  offending." 

[152] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

He  flung  himself  down  despairingly.  "I  give  it  up ! 
— What  did  you  tell  her?"  he  burst  out  with  sudden 
crudeness. 

"The  exact  truth.  If  I  had  only  known,*'  she  broke 
off  with  a  beseeching  tenderness,  "won't  you  believe 
that  I  would  still  have  lied  for  you  ?" 

"Lied  for  me?  Why  on  earth  should  you  have  lied 
for  either  of  us?" 

"To  save  you — to  hide  you  from  her  to  the  last! 
As  I've  hidden  you  from  myself  all  these  years!" 
She  stood  up  with  a  sudden  tragic  import  in  her 
movement.  "You  believe  me  capable  of  that,  don't 
you  ?  If  I  had  only  guessed — but  I  have  never  known 
a  girl  like  her;  she  had  the  truth  out  of  me  with  a 
spring." 

"The  truth  that  you  and  I  had  never — " 

"Had  never — never  in  all  these  years !  Oh,  she 
knew  why — she  measured  us  both  in  a  flash.  She 
didn't  suspect  me  of  having  haggled  with  you — her 
words  pelted  me  like  hail.  'He  just  took  what  he 
wanted — sifted  and  sorted  you  to  suit  his  taste.  Burnt 
out  the  gold  and  left  a  heap  of  cinders.  And  you  let 
him — you  let  yourself  be  cut  in  bits' — she  mixed  her 
metaphors  a  little — 'be  cut  in  bits,  and  used  or  dis 
carded,  while  all  the  while  every  drop  of  blood  in 
you  belonged  to  him!  But  he's  Shylock — he's  Shy- 
lock — and  you  have  bled  to  death  of  the  pound  of 
[  153  ] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

flesh  he  has  cut  out  off  you.'  But  she  despises  me  the 
most,  you  know — far  the  most — "  Mrs.  Vervain 
ended. 

The  words  fell  strangely  on  the  scented  stillness 
of  the  room:  they  seemed  out  of  harmony  with  its 
setting  of  afternoon  intimacy,  the  kind  of  intimacy 
on  which,  at  any  moment,  a  visitor  might  intrude 
without  perceptibly  lowering  the  atmosphere.  It  was 
as  though  a  grand  opera-singer  had  strained  the  acous 
tics  of  a  private  music-room. 

Thursdale  stood  up,  facing  his  hostess.  Half  the 
room  was  between  them,  but  they  seemed  to  stare 
close  at  each  other  now  that  the  veils  of  reticence 
and  ambiguity  had  fallen. 

His  first  words  were  characteristic:  "She  does  de 
spise  me,  then?"  he  exclaimed. 

"She  thinks  the  pound  of  flesh  you  took  was  a  lit 
tle  too  near  the  heart." 

He  was  excessively  pale.  "Please  tell  me  exactly 
what  she  said  of  me." 

"She  did  not  speak  much  of  you:  she  is  proud.  But 
I  gather  that  while  she  understands  love  or  indiffer 
ence,  her  eyes  have  never  been  opened  to  the 
many  intermediate  shades  of  feeling.  At  any  rate, 
she  expressed  an  unwillingness  to  be  taken  with 
reservations — she  thinks  you  would  have  loved  her 
better  if  you  had  loved  some  one  else  first.  The 
[154] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

point  of  view  is  original — she  insists  on  a  man  with 
a  past!" 

"Oh,  a  past — if  she's  serious — I  could  rake  up  a 
past!"  he  said  with  a  laugh. 

"So  I  suggested:  but  she  has  her  eyes  on  this  par 
ticular  portion  of  it.  She  insists  on  making  it  a  test 
case.  She  wanted  to  know  what  you  had  done  to  me; 
and  before  I  could  guess  her  drift  I  blundered  into 
telling  her/' 

Thursdale  drew  a  difficult  breath.  "I  never  supposed 
— your  revenge  is  complete,"  he  said  slowly. 

He  heard  a  little  gasp  in  her  throat.  "My  revenge? 
When  I  sent  for  you  to  warn  you — to  save  you  from 
being  surprised  as  I  was  surprised?" 

"You're  very  good — but  it's  rather  late  to  talk  of 
saving  me."  He  held  out  his  hand  in  the  mechanical 
gesture  of  leave-taking. 

"How  you  must  care! — for  I  never  saw  you  so 
dull,"  was  her  answer.  "Don't  you  see  that  it's  not 
too  late  for  me  to  help  you?"  And  as  he  continued  to 

I 

stare,  she  brought  out  sublimely:  "Take  the  rest — in 
imagination!  Let  it  at  least  be  of  that  much  use  to 
you.  Tell  her  I  lied  to  her — she's  too  ready  to  believe 
it!  And  so,  after  all,  in  a  sense,  I  sha'n't  have  been 
wasted." 

His  stare  hung  on  her,  widening  to  a  kind  of  won 
der.  She  gave  the  look  back  brightly,  unblushingly, 
[155] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

as  though  the  expedient  were  too  simple  to  need 
oblique  approaches.  It  was  extraordinary  how  a  few 
words  had  swept  them  from  an  atmosphere  of  the 
most  complex  dissimulations  to  this  contact  of  naked 
souls. 

It  was  not  in  Thursdale  to  expand  with  the  press 
ure  of  fate ;  but  something  in  him  cracked  with  it,  and 
the  rift  let  in  new  light.  He  went  up  to  his  friend  and 
took  her  hand. 

"You  would  do  it — you  would  do  it !" 

She  looked  at  him,  smiling,  but  her  hand  shook. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  kissing  it. 

"Good-bye?    You  are  going — ?" 

"To  get  my  letter." 

"Your  letter?  The  letter  won't  matter,  if  you  will 
only  do  what  I  ask." 

He,  returned  her  gaze.  "I  might,  I  suppose, 
without  being  out  of  character.  Only,  don't  you 
see  that  if  your  plan  helped  me  it  could  only  harm 
her?" 

"Harm  her?" 

"To  sacrifice  you  wouldn't  make  me  different.  I 
shall  go  on  being  what  I  have  always  been — sifting 
and  sorting,  as  she  calls  it.  Do  you  want  my  punish 
ment  to  fall  on  her?" 

She  looked  at  him  long  and  deeply.  "Ah,  if  I  had 
to  choose  between  you — !" 

[156] 


THE    DILETTANTE 

"You  would  let  her  take  her  chance?  But  I  can't, 
you  see.  I  must  take  my  punishment  alone." 

She  drew  her  hand  away,  sighing.  "Oh,  there  will 
be  no  punishment  for  either  of  you." 

"For  either  of  us?  There  will  be  the  reading  of 
her  letter  for  me." 

She  shook  her  head  with  a  slight  laugh.  "There 
will  be  no  letter." 

Thursdale  faced  about  from  the  threshold  with 
fresh  life  in  his  look.  "No  letter?  You  don't  mean — " 

"I  mean  that  she's  been  with  you  since  I  saw  her 
— she's  seen  you  and  heard  your  voice.  If  there  is  a 
letter,  she  has  recalled  it — from  the  first  station,  by 
telegraph." 

He  turned  back  to  the  door,  forcing  an  answer  to 
her  smile.  "But  in  the  meanwhile  I  shall  have  read 
it,"  he  said. 

The  door  closed  on  him,  and  she  hid  her  eyes  from 
the  dreadful  emptiness  of  the  room. 


*-» 


^> 


[157] 


THE   RECKONING 


THE    RECKONING 


((f    •    "\HE  marriage  law  of  the  new  dispensation 
|         will  be:  Thou  shalt  not  be  unfaithful — to 
•*-        thyself." 

A  discreet  murmur  of  approval  filled  the  studio, 
and  through  the  haze  of  cigarette  smoke  Mrs.  Clem 
ent  Westall,  as  her  husband  descended  from  his  im 
provised  platform,  saw  him  merged  in  a  congratu 
latory  group  of  ladies.  West  all's  informal  talks  on 
"The  New  Ethics"  had  drawn  about  him  an  eager 
following  of  the  mentally  unemployed — those  who,  as 
he  had  once  phrased  it,  liked  to  have  their  brain-food 
cut  up  for  them.  The  talks  had  begun  by  accident. 
Westall's  ideas  were  known  to  be  "advanced/*  but 
hitherto  their  advance  had  not  been  in  the  direction 
of  publicity.  He  had  been,  in  his  wife's  opinion, 
almost  pusillanimously  careful  not  to  let  his  personal 
views  endanger  his  professional  standing.  Of  late, 
however,  he  had  shown  a  puzzling  tendency  to  dog 
matise,  to  throw  down  the  gauntlet,  to  flaunt  his  pri 
vate  code  in  the  face  of  society;  and  the  relation  of 
the  sexes  being  a  topic  always  sure  of  an  audience, 
a  few  admiring  friends  had  persuaded  him  to  give  his 
[161] 


rt' 

V 


THE    RECKONING 

after-dinner  opinions  a  larger  circulation  by  sum 
ming  them  up  in  a  series  of  talks  at  the  Van  Sideren 
studio. 

The  Herbert  Van  Siderens  were  a  couple  who  sub 
sisted,  socially,  on  the  fact  that  they  had  a  studio. 
Van  Sideren's  pictures  were  chiefly  valuable  as  ac 
cessories  to  the  mise  en  scene  which  differentiated  his 
wife's  "afternoons"  from  the  blighting  functions  held 
in  long  New  York  drawing-rooms,  and  permitted  her 
to  offer  their  friends  whiskey-and-soda  instead  of  tea. 
Mrs.  Van  Sideren,  for  her  part,  was  skilled  in  mak 
ing  the  most  of  the  kind  of  atmosphere  which  a  lay- 
figure  and  an  easel  create;  and  if  at  times  she  found 
the  illusion  hard  to  maintain,  and  lost  courage  to  the 
extent  of  almost  wishing  that  Herbert  could  paint, 
she  promptly  overcame  such  moments  of  weakness  by 
calling  in  some  fresh  talent,  some  extraneous  re- 
enforcement  of  the  "artistic"  impression.  It  was  in 
quest  of  such  aid  that  she  had  seized  on  Westall, 
coaxing  him,  somewhat  to  his  wife's  surprise,  into  a 
flattered  participation  in  her  fraud.  It  was  vaguely 
felt,  in  the  Van  Sideren  circle,  that  all  the  audacities 
were  artistic,  and  that  a  teacher  who  pronounced  mar 
riage  immoral  was  somehow  as  distinguished  as  a 
painter  who  depicted  purple  grass  and  a  green  sky. 
The  Van  Sideren  set  were  tired  of  the  conventional 
colour-scheme  in  art  and  conduct. 
[162] 


THE    RECKONING 

Julia  Westall  had  long  had  'her  own  views  on 
the  immorality  of  marriage;  she  might  indeed  have 
claimed  her  husband  as  a  disciple.  In  the  early  days 
of  their  union  she  had  secretly  resented  his  disinclina 
tion  to  proclaim  himself  a  follower  of  the  new  creed ; 
had  been  inclined  to  tax  him  with  moral  cowardice, 
with  a  failure  to  live  up  to  the  convictions  for  which 
their  marriage  was  supposed  to  stand.  That  was  in 
the  first  burst  of  propagandism,  when,  womanlike,  she 
wanted  to  turn  her  disobedience  into  a  law.  Now  she 
felt  differently.  She  could  hardly  account  for  the 
change,  yet  being  a  woman  who  never  allowed  her 
impulses  to  remain  unaccounted  for,  she  tried  to  do 
so  by  saying  that  she  did  not  care  to  have  the  articles 
of  her  faith  misinterpreted  by  the  vulgar.  In  this 
connection,  she  was  beginning  to  think  that  almost 
every  one  was  vulgar;  certainly  there  were  few  to 
whom  she  would  have  cared  to  intrust  the  defence 
of  so  esoteric  a  doctrine.  And  it  was  precisely  at  this 
^  point  that  Westall,  discarding  his  unspoken  princi 
ples,  had  chosen  to  descend  from  the  heights  of 
privacy,  and  stand  hawking  his  convictions  at  the 
street-corner ! 

It  was  Una  Van  Sideren  who,  on  this  occasion,  un 
consciously    focussed    upon    herself    Mrs.    WestalFs 
wandering  resentment.  In  the  first  place,  the  girl  had 
no  business  to  be  there.  It  was  "horrid" — Mrs.  West- 
[163] 


THE    RECKONING 

all  found  herself  slipping  back  into  the  old  feminine 
vocabulary — simply  "horrid"  to  think  of  a  young 
girl's  being  allowed  to  listen  to  such  talk.  The  fact 
that  Una  smoked  cigarettes  and  sipped  an  occasional 
cocktail  did  not  in  the  least  tarnish  a  certain  radiant 
innocency  which  made  her  appear  the  victim,  rather 
than  the  accomplice,  of  her  parents'  vulgarities.  Julia 
Westall  felt  in  a  hot  helpless  way  that  something 
ought  to  be  done — that  some  one  ought  to  speak  to 
the  girl's  mother.  And  just  then  Una  glided  up. 

"Oh,  Mrs.  Westall,  how  beautiful  it  was!"  Una 
fixed  her  with  large  limpid  eyes.  "You  believe  it  all, 
I  suppose?"  she  asked  with  seraphic  gravity. 

"All— what,  my  dear  child?" 

The  girl  shone  on  her.  "About  the  higher  life — the 
freer  expansion  of  the  individual — the  law  of  fidelity 
to  one's  self,"  she  glibly  recited. 

Mrs.  Westall,  to  her  own  wonder,  blushed  a  deep 
and  burning  blush. 

"My  dear  Una,"  she  said,  "y°u  don't  in  the  least 
understand  what  it's  all  about!" 

Miss  Van  Sideren  stared,  with  a  slowly  answering 
blush.  "Don't  you,  then?"  she  murmured. 

Mrs.  Westall  laughed.  "Not  always — or  altogether ! 
But  I  should  like  some  tea,  please." 

Una  led  her  to  the  corner  where  innocent  beverages 
were  dispensed.  As  Julia  received  her  cup  she  scru- 
[164] 


THE    RECKONING 

tinised  the  girl  more  carefully.  It  was  not  such  a 
girlish  face,  after  all — definite  lines  were  forming 
under  the  rosy  haze  of  youth.  She  reflected  that  Una 
must  be  six-and-twenty,  and  wondered  why  she  had 
not  married.  A  nice  stock  of  ideas  she  would  have  as 
her  dower !  If  they  were  to  be  a  part  of  the  modern 
girl's  trousseau — 

Mrs.  Westall  caught  herself  up  with  a  start.  It 
was  as  though  some  one  else  had  been  speaking — a 
stranger  who  had  borrowed  her  own  voice:  she  felt 
herself  the  dupe  of  some  fantastic  mental  ventrilo 
quism.  Concluding  suddenly  that  the  room  was 
stifling  and  Una's  tea  too  sweet,  she  set  down  her 
cup  and  looked  about  for  Westall:  to  meet  his  eyes 
had  long  been  her  refuge  from  every  uncertainty.  She 
met  them  now,  but  only,  as  she  felt,  in  transit;  they 
included  her  parenthetically  in  a  larger  flight.  She 
followed  the  flight,  and  it  carried  her  to  a  corner  to 
which  Una  had  withdrawn — one  of  the  palmy  nooks 
to  which  Mrs.  Van  Sideren  attributed  the  success  of 
her  Saturdays.  Westall,  a  moment  later,  had  over 
taken  his  look,  and  found  a  place  at  the  girl's  side. 
She  bent  forward,  speaking  eagerly;  he  leaned  back, 
listening,  with  the  depreciatory  smile  which  acted  as 
a  filter  to  flattery,  enabling  him  to  swallow  the 
strongest  doses  without  apparent  grossness  of  appe 
tite.  Julia  winced  at  her  own  definition  of  the  smile. 
[165] 


THE    RECKONING 

On  the  way  home,  in  the  deserted  winter  dusk, 
Westall  surprised  his  wife  by  a  sudden  boyish  press 
ure  of  her  arm.  "Did  I  open  their  eyes  a  bit?  Did  I 
tell  them  what  you  wanted  me  to?"  he  asked  gaily. 

Almost  unconsciously,  she  let  her  arm  slip  from 
his.  "What /wanted—?" 

"Why,  haven't  you — all  this  time?"  She  caught 
the  honest  wonder  of  his  tone.  "I  somehow  fancied 
you'd  rather  blamed  me  for  not  talking  more  openly 
— before — .  You  almost  made  me  feel,  at  times,  that 
I  was  sacrificing  principles  to  expediency." 

She  paused  a  moment  over  her  reply;  then  she 
asked  quietly:  "What  made  you  decide  not  to — any 
longer  ?" 

She  felt  again  the  vibration  of  a  faint  surprise. 
"Why — the  wish  to  please  you!"  he  answered,  almost 
too  simjply. 

"I  wish  you  would  not  go  on,  then,"  she  said  ab 
ruptly. 

He  stopped  in  his  quick  walk,  and  she  felt  his 
stare  through  the  darkness. 

"Not  go  on—?" 

"Call  a  hansom,  please.  I'm  tired,"  broke  from  her 
with  a  sudden  rush  of  physical  weariness. 

Instantly  his  solicitude  enveloped  her.  The  room 
had  been  infernally  hot — and  then  that  confounded 
cigarette  smoke — he  had  noticed  once  or  twice  that 
[166] 


THE   RECKONING 

she  looked  pale — she  mustn't  come  to  another  Sat 
urday.  She  felt  herself  yielding,  as  she  always  did, 
to  the  warm  influence  of  his  concern  for  her,  the 
feminine  in  her  leaning  on  the  man  in  him  with  a 
conscious  intensity  of  abandonment.  He  put  her  in 
the  hansom,  and  her  hand  stole  into  his  in  the  dark 
ness.  A  tear  or  two  rose,  and  she  let  them  fall.  It 
was  so  delicious  to  cry  over  imaginary  troubles ! 

That  evening,  after  dinner,  he  surprised  her  by 
reverting  to  the  subject  of  his  talk.  He  combined  a 
man's  dislike  of  uncomfortable  questions  with  an  al 
most  feminine  skill  in  eluding  them;  and  she  knew 
that  if  he  returned  to  the  subject  he  must  have  some 
special  reason  for  doing  so. 

"You  seem  not  to  have  cared  for  what  I  said  this 
afternoon.  Did  I  put  the  case  badly?" 

"No — you  put  it  very  well." 

"Then  what  did  you  mean  by  saying  that  you  would 
rather  not  have  me  go  on  with  it?" 

She  glanced  at  him  nervously,  her  ignorance  of  his 
intention  deepening  her  sense  of  helplessness. 

"I  don't  think  I  care  to  hear  such  things  discussed 
in  public." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  he  exclaimed.  Again  the 
feeling  that  his  surprise  was  genuine  gave  an  air  of 
obliquity  to  her  own  attitude.  She  was  not  sure  that 
she  understood  herself. 

[167] 


THE   RECKONING 

"Won't  you  explain?"  he  said  with  a  tinge  of  im 
patience. 

Her  eyes  wandered  about  the  familiar  drawing- 
room  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  many  of  their 
evening  confidences.  The  shaded  lamps,  the  quiet- 
coloured  walls  hung  with  mezzotints,  the  pale  spring 
flowers  scattered  here  and  there  in  Venice  glasses  and 
bowls  of  old  Sevres,  recalled,  she  hardly  knew  why, 
the  apartment  in  which  the  evenings  of  her  first  mar 
riage  had  been  passed — a  wilderness  of  rosewood  and 
upholstery,  with  a  picture  of  a  Roman  peasant  above 
the  mantlepiece,  and  a  Greek  slave  in  "statuary 
marble"  between  the  folding-doors  of  the  back  draw 
ing-room.  It  was  a  room  with  which  she  had  never 
been  able  to  establish  any  closer  relation  than  that 
between  a  traveller  and  a  railway  station;  and  now, 
as  she  .looked  about  at  the  surroundings  which  stood 
•  \  for  her  deepest  affinities — the  room  for  which  she  had 
||  left  that  other  room — she  was  startled  by  the  same 
sense  of  strangeness  and  unfamiliarity.  The  prints, 
the  flowers,  the  subdued  tones  of  the  old  porcelains, 
,  seemed  to  typify  a  superficial  refinement  which  had  no 
I  relation  to  the  deeper  significances  of  life. 

Suddenly   she   heard   her    husband    repeating   his 
question. 

"I  don't  know  that  I  can  explain,"  she  faltered. 
He  drew  his  arm-chair  forward  so  that  he  faced 
[168] 


THE    RECKONING 

her  across  the  hearth.  The  light  of  a  reading-lamp 
fell  on  his  finely  drawn  face,  which  had  a  kind  of 
surface-sensitiveness  akin  to  the  surface-refinement 
of  its  setting. 

"Is  it  that  you  no  longer  believe  in  our  ideas?"  he 
asked. 

"In  our  ideas—?" 

"The  ideas  I  am  trying  to  teach.  The  ideas  you 
and  I  are  supposed  to  stand  for."  He  paused  a  mo 
ment.  "The  ideas  on  which  our  marriage  was 
founded." 

The  blood  rushed  to  her  face.  He  Ead  his  reasons, 
then — she  was  sure  now  that  he  had  his  reasons !  In 
the  ten  years  of  their  marriage,  how  often  had  either 
of  them  stopped  to  consider  the  ideas  on  which  it 
was  founded?  How  often  does  a  man  dig  about  the 
basement  of  his  house  to  examine  its  foundation  ?  The 
foundation  is  there,  of  course — the  house  rests  on  it 
— but  one  lives  abovestairs  and  not  in  the  cellar.  It 
was  she,  indeed,  who  in  the  beginning  had  insisted 
on  reviewing  the  situation  now  and  then,  on  re 
capitulating  the  reasons  which  justified  her  course,  on 
proclaiming,  from  time  to  time,  her  adherence  to  the 
religion  of  personal  independence;  but  she  had  long 
ceased  to  feel  the  want  of  any  such  ideal  standards, 
and  had  accepted  her  marriage  as  frankly  and  nat 
urally  as  though  it  had  been  based  on  the  primitive 
[169] 


THE    RECKONING 

needs  of  the  heart,  and  required  no  special  sanction 
to  explain  or  justify  it. 

"Of  course  I  still  believe  in  our  ideas!"  she  ex 
claimed. 

"Then  I  repeat  that  I  don't  understand.  It  was  a 
part  of  your  theory  that  the  greatest  possible  pub 
licity  should  be  given  to  our  view  of  marriage.  Have 
you  changed  your  mind  in  that  respect?" 

She  hesitated.  "It  depends  on  circumstances — on 
the  public  one  is  addressing.  The  set  of  people  that 
the  Van  Siderens  get  about  them  don't  care  for  the 
truth  or  falseness  of  a  doctrine.  They  are  attracted 
simply  by  its  novelty." 

"And  yet  it  was  in  just  such  a  set  of  people  that 
you  and  I  met,  and  learned  the  truth  from  each 
other." 

"That  was  different." 

"In  what  way?" 

"I  was  not  a  young  girl,  to  begin  with.  It  is  per 
fectly  unfitting  that  young  girls  should  be  present 
at — at  such  times — should  hear  such  things  dis 
cussed — " 

"I  thought  you  considered  it  one  of  the  deepest 
social  wrongs  that  such  things  never  are  discussed  be 
fore  young  girls;  but  that  is  beside  the  point,  for  I 
don't  remember  seeing  any  young  girl  in  my  audi 
ence  to-day — " 

[170] 


THE    RECKONING 

"Except  Una  Van  Sideren!" 

He  turned  slightly  and  pushed  back  the  lamp  at 
his  elbow. 

"Oh,  Miss  Van  Sideren— naturally— " 

"Why  naturally?" 

"The  daughter  of  the  house — would  you  have  had 
her  sent  out  with  her  governess  ?" 

"If  I  had  a  daughter  I  should  not  allow  such  things 
to  go  on  in  my  house!" 

Westall,  stroking  his  mustache,  leaned  back  with 
a  faint  smile.  "I  fancy  Miss  Van  Sideren  is  quite 
capable  of  taking  care  of  herself." 

"No  girl  knows  how  to  take  care  of  herself — till 
it's  too  late." 

"And  yet  you  would  deliberately  deny  her  the 
surest  means  of  self-defence?" 

"What  do  you  call  the  surest  means  of  self-de 
fence  ?" 

"Some  preliminary  knowledge  of  human  nature  in 
its  relation  to  the  marriage  tie." 

She  made  an  impatient  gesture.  "How  should  you 
like  to  marry  that  kind  of  a  girl?" 

"Immensely — if  she  were  my  kind  of  girl  in  other 
respects." 

She  took  up  the  argument  at  another  point. 

"You  are  quite  mistaken  if  you  think  such  talk  does 
not  affect  young  girls.  Una  was  in  a  state  of  the  most 
[171] 


THE    RECKONING 

absurd  exaltation — "  She  broke  off,  wondering  why 
she  had  spoken. 

Westall  reopened  a  magazine  which  he  had  laid 
aside  at  the  beginning  of  their  discussion.  "What  you 
tell  me  is  immensely  flattering  to  my  oratorical  talent 
— but  I  fear  you  overrate  its  effect.  I  can  assure  you 
that  Miss  Van  Sideren  doesn't  have  to  have  her  think 
ing  done  for  her.  She's  quite  capable  of  doing  it  her 
self." 

"You  seem  very  familiar  with  her  mental  proc 
esses!"  flashed  unguardedly  from  his  wife. 

He  looked  up  quietly  from  the  pages  he  was  cut 
ting. 

"I  should  like  to  be,"  he  answered.  "She  interests 
me." 

II 

TF  there  be  a  distinction  in  being  misunderstood,  it 
•••  was  one  denied  to  Julia  Westall  when  she  left  her 
first  husband.  Every  one  was  ready  to  excuse  and 
even  to  defend  her.  The  world  she  adorned  agreed 
that  John  Arment  was  "impossible,"  and  hostesses 
'gave  a  sigh  of  relief  at  the  thought  that  it  would  no 
longer  be  necessary  to  ask  him  to  dine. 

There   had   been   no   scandal   connected   with   the 

divorce:  neither  side  had  accused  the  other  of  the 

offence  euphemistically  described  as  "statutory."  The 

Arments  had  indeed  been  obliged  to  transfer  their 

[172] 


THE    RECKONING 

allegiance  to  a  State  which  recognized  desertion  as 
a  cause  for  divorce,  and  construed  the  term  so  lib 
erally  that  the  seeds  of  desertion  were  shown  to  exist 
in  every  union.  Even  Mrs.  Arment's  second  marriage 
did  not  irake  traditional  morality  stir  in  its  sleep.  It 
was  known  that  she  had  not  met  her  second  husband 
till  after  she  had  parted  from  the  first,  and  she  had, 
moreover,  replaced  a  rich  man  by  a  poor  one.  Though 
Clement  Westall  was  acknowledged  to  be  a  rising  law-  \/ 
yer,  it  was  generally  felt  that  his  fortunes  would  not 
rise  as  rapidly  as  his  reputation.  The  Westalls  would 
probably  always  have  to  live  quietly  and  go  out  to 
dinner  in  cabs.  Could  there  be  better  evidence  of  Mrs. 
Arment's  complete  disinterestedness? 

If  the  reasoning  by  which  her  friends  justified  her 
course  was  somewhat  cruder  and  less  complex  than 
her  own  elucidation  of  the  matter,  both  explanations 
led  to  the  same  conclusion:  John  Arment  was  impos 
sible.  The  only  difference  was  that,  to  his  wife,  his 
impossibility  was  something  deeper  than  a  social  dis 
qualification.  She  had  once  said,  in  ironical  defence 
of  her  marriage,  that  it  had  at  least  preserved  her 
from  the  necessity  of  sitting  next  to  him  at  dinner; 
but  she  had  not  then  realised  at  what  cost  the  im 
munity  was  purchased.  John  Arment  was  impossible; 
but  the  sting  of  his  impossibility  lay  in  the  fact  that 
he  made  it  impossible  for  those  about  him  to  be  other 
[173] 


THE    RECKONING 

than  himself.  By  an  unconscious  process  of  elimina 
tion  he  had  excluded  from  the  world  everything  of 
which  he  did  not  feel  a  personal  need:  had  become, 
as  it  were,  a  climate  in  which  only  his  own  require 
ments  survived.  This  might  seem  to  imply  a  deliberate 
selfishness;  but  there  was  nothing  deliberate  about 
Arment.  He  was  as  instinctive  as  an  animal  or  a  child. 
It  was  this  childish  element  in  his  nature  which  some 
times  for  a  moment  unsettled  his  wife's  estimate  of 
him.  Was  it  possible  that  he  was  simply  undeveloped, 
that  he  had  delayed,  somewhat  longer  than  is  usual, 
the  laborious  process  of  growing  up?  He  had  the 
kind  of  sporadic  shrewdness  which  causes  it  to  be 
said  of  a  dull  man  that  he  is  "no  fool";  and  it  was 
this  quality  that  his  wife  found  most  trying.  Even 
to  the  naturalist  it  is  annoying  to  have  his  deductions 
disturbed  by  some  unforeseen  aberrancy  of  form  or 
function;  and  how  much  more  so  to  the  wife  whose 
estimate  of  herself  is  inevitably  bound  up  with  her 
judgment  of  her  husband! 

Arment's  shrewdness  did  not,  indeed,  imply  any 
latent  intellectual  power;  it  suggested,  rather,  po 
tentialities  of  feeling,  of  suffering,  perhaps,  in  a 
blind  rudimentary  way,  on  which  Julia's  sensibilities 
naturally  declined  to  linger.  She  so  fully  understood 
her  own  reasons  for  leaving  him  that  she  disliked  to 
think  they  were  not  as  comprehensible  to  her  husband. 
[174] 


THE    RECKONING 

She  was  haunted,  in  her  analytic  moments,  by  the  look 
of  perplexity,  too  inarticulate  for  words,  with  which 
he  had  acquiesced  in  her  explanations. 

These  moments  were  rare  with  her,  however.  Her 
marriage  had  been  too  concrete  a  misery  to  be  sur 
veyed  philosophically.  If  she  had  been  unhappy  for 
complex  reasons,  the  unhappiness  was  as  real  as 
though  it  had  been  uncomplicated.  Soul  is  more 
bruisable  than  flesh,  and  Julia  was  wounded  in  every 
fibre  of  her  spirit.  Her  husband's  personality  seemed 
to  be  closing  gradually  in  on  her,  obscuring  the  sky 
and  cutting  off  the  air,  till  she  felt  herself  shut  up 
among  the  decaying  bodies  of  her  starved  hopes.  A 
sense  of  having  been  decoyed  by  some  world-old  con 
spiracy  into  this  bondage  of  body  and  soul  filled  her 
with  despair.  If  marriage  was  the  slow  life-long  ac 
quittal  of  a  debt  contracted  in  ignorance,  then  mar 
riage  was  a  crime  against  human  nature.  She,  for  one, 
would  have  no  share  in  maintaining  the  pretence  of 
which  she  had  been  a  victim :  the  pretence  that  a  man 
and  a  woman,  forced  into  the  narrowest  of  personal 
relations,  must  remain  there  till  the  end,  though  they 
may  have  outgrown  the  span  of  each  other's  natures  as 
the  mature  tree  outgrows  the  iron  brace  about  the 
sapling. 

It  was  in  the  first  heat  of  her  moral  indignation 
that  she  had  met  Clement  Westall.  She  had  seen  at 
[175] 


THE    RECKONING 

once  that  he  was  "interested/*  and  had  fought  off 
the  discovery,  dreading  any  influence  that  should  draw 
her  back  into  the  bondage  of  conventional  relations. 
To  ward  off  the  peril  she  had,  with  an  almost  crude 
precipitancy,  revealed  her  opinions  to  him.  To  her 
surprise,  she  found  that  he  shared  them.  She  was  at 
tracted  by  the  frankness  of  a  suitor  who,  while  press 
ing  his  suit,  admitted  that  he  did  not  believe  in  mar 
riage.  Her  worst  audacities  did  not  seem  to  surprise 
him:  he  had  thought  out  all  that  she  had  felt,  and 
they  had  reached  the  same  conclusion.  People  grew  at 
varying  rates,  and  the  yoke  that  was  an  easy  fit  for  the 
one  might  soon  become  galling  to  the  other.  That  was 
what  divorce  was  for:  the  readjustment  of  personal 
relations.  As  soon  as  their  necessarily  transitive  nat 
ure  was  recognised  they  would  gain  in  dignity  as 
well  as  in  harmony.  There  would  be  no  farther  need 
of  the  ignoble  concessions  and  connivances,  the  per 
petual  sacrifice  of  personal  delicacy  and  moral  pride, 
by  means  of  which  imperfect  marriages  were  now 
held  together.  Each  partner  to  the  contract  would  be 
on  his  mettle,  forced  to  live  up  to  the  highest  stand 
ard  of  self-development,  on  pain  of  losing  the  other's 
respect  and  affection.  The  low  nature  could  no  longer 
drag  the  higher  down,  but  must  struggle  to  rise,  or 
remain  alone  on  its  inferior  level.  The  only  neces 
sary  condition  to  a  harmonious  marriage  was  a  frank 
[176] 


THE    RECKONING 

recognition  of  this  truth,  and  a  solemn  agreement  be 
tween  the  contracting  parties  to  keep  faith  with  them 
selves,  and  not  to  live  together  for  a  moment  after 
complete  accord  had  ceased  to  exist  between  them. 
The  new  adultery  was  unfaithfulness  to  self. 

It  was,  as  Westall  had  just  reminded  her,  on  this 
understanding  that  they  had  married.  The  ceremony 
was  an  unimportant  concession  to  social  prejudice: 
now  that  the  door  of  divorce  stood  open,  no  marriage 
need  be  an  imprisonment,  and  the  contract  therefore 
no  longer  involved  any  diminution  of  self-respect. 
The  nature  of  their  attachment  placed  them  so  far 
beyond  the  reach  of  such  contingencies  that  it  was 
easy  to  discuss  them  with  an  open  mind;  and  Julia's 
sense  of  security  made  her  dwell  with  a  tender  in 
sistence  on  Westall's  promise  to  claim  his  release 
when  he  should  cease  to  love  her.  The  exchange  of 
these  vows  seemed  to  make  them,  in  a  sense,  cham 
pions  of  the  new  law,  pioneers  in  the  forbidden  realm 
of  individual  freedom:  they  felt  that  they  had  some 
how  achieved  beatitude  without  martyrdom. 

This,  as  Julia  now  reviewed  the  past,  she  perceived 
to  have  been  her  theoretical  attitude  toward  marriage. 
It  was  unconsciously,  insidiously,  that  her  ten  years 
of  happiness  with  Westall  had  developed  another 
conception  of  the  tie;  a  reversion,  rather,  to  the  old 
instinct  of  passionate  dependency  and  possessorship 
[177] 


THE    RECKONING 

that  now  made  her  blood  revolt  at  the  mere  hint  of 
change.  .Change?  Renewal?  Was  that  what  they  had 
called  it,  in  their  foolish  jargon?  Destruction,  ex 
termination  rather — this  rending  of  a  myriad  fibres 
interwoven  with  another's  being!  Another?  But  he 
was  not  other !  He  and  she  were  one,  one  in  the  mys 
tic  sense  which  alone  gave  marriage  its  significance. 
The  new  law  was  not  for  them,  but  for  the  disunited 
creatures  forced  into  a  mockery  of  union.  The  gospel 
she  had  felt  called  on  to  proclaim  had  no  bearing  on 
her  own  case.  .  .  .  She  sent  for  the  doctor  and  told 
him  she  was  sure  she  needed  a  nerve  tonic. 

She  took  the  nerve  tonic  diligently,  but  it  failed 
to  act  as  a  sedative  to  her  fears.  She  did  not  know 
what  she  feared;  but  that  made  her  anxiety  the  more 
pervasive.  Her  husband  had  not  reverted  to  the  sub 
ject  of  his  Saturday  talks.  He  was  unusually  kind  and 
considerate,  with  a  softening  of  his  quick  manner,  a 
touch  of  shyness  in  his  consideration,  that  sickened 
her  with  new  fears.  She  told  herself  that  it  was  be- 
caused  she  looked  badly — because  he  knew  about  the 
doctor  and  the  nerve  tonic — that  he  showed  this  def 
erence  to  her  wishes,  this  eagerness  to  screen  her  from 
moral  draughts;  but  the  explanation  simply  cleared 
the  way  for  fresh  inferences. 

The  week  passed  slowly,  vacantly,  like  a  prolonged 
Sunday.  On  Saturday  the  morning  post  brought  a 
[178] 


THE    RECKONING 

note  from  Mrs.  Van  Sideren.  Would  dear  Julia  ask 
Mr.  Westall  to  come  half  an  hour  earlier  than  usual, 
as  there  was  to  be  some  music  after  his  "talk"  ?  West- 
all  was  just  leaving  for  his  office  when  his  wife  read 
the  note.  She  opened  the  drawing-room  door  and 
called  him  back  to  deliver  the  message. 

He  glanced  at  the  note  and  tossed  it  aside.  "What 
a  bore!  I  shall  have  to  cut  my  game  of  racquets. 
Well,  I  suppose  it  can't  be  helped.  Will  you  write  and 
say  it's  all  right?" 

Julia  hesitated  a  moment,  her  hand  stiffening  on 
the  chair-back  against  which  she  leaned. 

"You  mean  to  go  on  with  these  talks  ?"  she  asked. 

"I — why  not?"  he  returned;  and  this  time  it  struck 
her  that  his  surprise  was  not  quite  unfeigned.  The 
perception  helped  her  to  find  words. 

"You  said  you  had  started  them  with  the  idea  of 
pleasing  me — " 

"Well?" 

"I  told  you  last  week  that  they  didn't  please  me." 

"Last  week? — Oh — "  He  seemed  to  make  an  effort 
of  memory.  "I  thought  you  were  nervous  then;  you 
sent  for  the  doctor  the  next  day." 

"It  was  not  the  doctor  I  needed;  it  was  your  assur 
ance — " 

"My  assurance?" 

Suddenly  she  felt  the  floor  fail  under  her.  She  sank 
[179] 


THE    RECKONING 

into  the  chair  with  a  choking  throat,  her  words,  her 
reasons  slipping  away  from  her  like  straws  down  a 
whirling  flood. 

"Clement/'  she  cried,  "isn't  it  enough  for  you  to 
know  that  I  hate  it?" 

He  turned  to  close  the  door  behind  them;  then  he 
walked  toward  her  and  sat  down.."What  is  it  that  you 
hate?"  he  asked  gently. 

She  had  made  a  desperate  effort  to  rally  her  routed 
argument. 

"I  can't  bear  to  have  you  speak  as  if — as  if — our 
marriage — were  like  the  other  kind — the  wrong  kind. 
When  I  heard  you  there,  the  other  afternoon,  before 
all  those  inquisitive  gossiping  people,  proclaiming  that 
husbands  and  wives  had  a  right  to  leave  each  other 
whenever  they  were  tired — or  had  seen  some  one 
else—" 

Westall  sat  motionless,  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  pattern 
of  the  carpet. 

"You  have  ceased  to  take  this  view,  then?"  he  said 
as  she  broke  off.  "You  no  longer  believe  that  hus 
bands  and  wives  are  justified  in  separating — under 
such  conditions?" 

"Under  such  conditions?"  she  stammered.  "Yes — 
I  still  believe  that — but  how  can  we  judge  for  oth 
ers?  What  can  we  know  of  the  circumstances — ?" 

He  interrupted  her.   "I  thought  it  was  a  funda- 
[180] 


THE    RECKONING 

mental  article  of  our  creed  that  the  special  circum 
stances  produced  by  marriage  were  not  to  interfere 
with  the  full  assertion  of  individual  liberty."  He 
paused  a  moment.  "I  thought  that  was  your  reason 
for  leaving  Arment." 

She  flushed  to  the  forehead.  It  was  not  like  him  to 
give  a  personal  turn  to  the  argument. 

"It  was  my  reason,"  she  said  simply. 

"Well,  then — why  do  you  refuse  to  recognise  its 
validity  now?" 

"I  don't — I  don't — I  only  say  that  one  can't  judge 
for  others." 

He  made  an  impatient  movement.  "This  is  mere 
hair-splitting.  What  you  mean  is  that,  the  doctrine 
having  served  your  purpose  when  you  needed  it,  you 
now  repudiate  it." 

"Well,"  she  exclaimed,  flushing  again,  "what  if  I 
do  ?  What  does  it  matter  to  us  ?" 

Westall  rose  from  his  chair.  He  was  excessively 
pale,  and  stood  before  his  wife  with  something  of  the 
formality  of  a  stranger. 

"It  matters  to  me,"  he  said  in  a  low  voice,  "because 
I  do  not  repudiate  it." 

"Well—?" 

"And  because  I  had  intended  to  invoke  it  as" — 

He  paused  and  drew  his  breath  deeply.  She  sat 
silent,  almost  deafened  by  her  heart-beats. 
[181] 


THE    RECKONING 

— "as  a  complete  justification  of  the  course  I  am 
about  to  take." 

Julia  remained  motionless.  "What  course  is  that?" 
she  asked. 

He  cleared  his  throat.  "I  mean  to  claim  the  fulfil 
ment  of  your  promise." 

For  an  instant  the  room  wavered  and  darkened; 
then  she  recovered  a  torturing  acuteness  of  vision. 
Every  detail  of  her  surroundings  pressed  upon  her: 
the  tick  of  the  clock,  the  slant  of  sunlight  on  the  wall, 
the  hardness  of  the  chair-arms  that  she  grasped, 
were  a  separate  wound  to  each  sense. 

"My  promise — "  she  faltered. 

"Your  part  of  our  mutual  agreement  to  set  each 
other  free  if  one  or  the  other  should  wish  to  be  re 
leased." 

She  was  silent  again.  He  waited  a  moment,  shifting 
his  position  nervously;  then  he  said,  with  a  touch  of 
irritability:  "You  acknowledge  the  agreement?" 

The  question  went  through  her  like  a  shock.  She 
lifted  her  head  to  it  proudly.  "I  acknowledge  the 
agreement,"  she  said. 

"And — you  don't  mean  to  repudiate  it?" 

A  log  on  the  hearth  fell  forward,  and  mechanically 
he  advanced  and  pushed  it  back. 

"No,"  she  answered  slowly,  "I  don't  mean  to  re 
pudiate  it." 

[182] 


THE    RECKONING 

There  was  a  pause.  He  remained  near  the  hearth, 
his  elbow  resting  on  the  mantel-shelf.  Close  to  his 
hand  stood  a  little  cup  of  jade  that  he  had  given  her 
on  one  of  their  wedding  anniversaries.  She  wondered 
vaguely  if  he  noticed  it. 

"You  intend  to  leave  me,  then?"  she  said  at  length. 

His  gesture  seemed  to  deprecate  the  crudeness  of 
the  allusion. 

"To  marry  some  one  else?" 

Again  his  eye  and  hand  protested.  She  rose  and 
stood  before  him. 

"Why  should  you  be  afraid  to  tell  me?  Is  it  Una 
Van  Sideren?" 

He  was  silent. 

"I  wish  you  good  luck,"  she  said. 


Ill 


SHE  looked  up,  finding  herself  alone.    She  did  not 
remember  when  or  how  he  had  left  the  room,  or 
how  long  afterward  she  had  sat  there.    The  fire  still 
smouldered  on  the  hearth,  but  the  slant  of  sunlight 
had  left  the  wall. 

Her  first  conscious  thought  was  that  she  had  not 
broken  her  word,  that  she  had  fulfilled  the  very  let 
ter  of  their  bargain.  There  had  been  no  crying  out, 
no    vain    appeal   to    the    past,    no    attempt    at   tern- 
[183] 


THE   RECKONING 

porising  or  evasion.     She  had  marched  straight  up 
to  the  guns. 

Now  that  it  was  over,  she  sickened  to  find  herself 
alive.  She  looked  about  her,  trying  to  recover  her  hold 
on  reality.  Her  identity  seemed  to  be  slipping  from 
her,  as  it  disappears  in  a  physical  swoon.  "This  is 
my  room — this  is  my  house,"  she  heard  herself  say 
ing.  Her  room?  Her  house?  She  could  almost  hear 
the  walls  laugh  back  at  her. 

She  stood  up,  weariness  in  every  bone.  The 
silence  of  the  room  frightened  her.  She  remembered, 
now,  having  heard  the  front  door  close  a  long  time 
ago:  the  sound  suddenly  re-echoed  through  her 
brain.  Her  husband  must  have  left  the  house,  then — 
her  husband?  She  no  longer  knew  in  what  terms  to 
think:  the  simplest  phrases  had  a  poisoned  edge. 
She  sank  back  into  her  chair,  overcome  by  a  strange 
weakness.  The  clock  struck  ten — it  was  only  ten 
o'clock!  Suddenly  she  remembered  that  she  had  not 
ordered  dinner  ...  or  were  they  dining  out  that 
evening?  Dinner — dining  out — the  old  meaningless 
phraseology  pursued  her!  She  must  try  to  think  of 
herself  as  she  would  think  of  some  one  else,  a  some 
one  dissociated  from  all  the  familiar  routine  of  the 
past,  whose  wants  and  habits  must"  gradually  be 
learned,  as  one  might  spy  out  the  ways  of  a  strange 
animal.  .  .  . 

[184] 


THE    RECKONING 

The  clock  struck  another  hour — eleven.  She  stood 
up  again  and  walked  to  the  door:  she  thought  she 
would  go  up  stairs  to  her  room.  Her  room?  Again 
the  word  derided  her.  She  opened  the  door,  crossed 
the  narrow  hall,  and  walked  up  the  stairs.  As  she 
passed,  she  noticed  WestalTs  sticks  and  umbrellas: 
a  pair  of  his  gloves  lay  on  the  hall  table.  The  same 
stair-carpet  mounted  between  the  same  walls;  the 
same  old  French  print,  in  its  narrow  black  frame, 
faced  her  on  the  landing.  This  visual  continuity  was 
intolerable.  Within,  a  gaping  chasm;  without,  the 
same  untroubled  and  familiar  surface.  She  must  get 
away  from  it  before  she  could  attempt  to  think.  But, 
once  in  her  room,  she  sat  down  on  the  lounge,  a  stu 
por  creeping  over  her.  .  .  . 

Gradually  her  vision  cleared.  A  great  deal  had 
happened  in  the  interval — a  wild  marching  and  coun 
termarching  of  emotions,  arguments,  ideas — a  fury 
of  insurgent  impulses  that  fell  back  spent  upon 
themselves.  She  had  tried,  at  first,  to  rally,  to  or- 

m 

ganise  these  chaotic  forces.  There  must  be  help 
somewhere,  if  only  she  could  master  the  inner  tumult. 
Life  could  not  be  broken  off  short  like  this,  for  a 
whim,  a  fancy;  the  law  itself  would  side  with  her, 
would  defend  her.  The  law?  What  claim  had  she 
upon  it  ?  She  was  the  prisoner  of  her  own  choice :  she 
had  been  her  own  legislator,  and  she  was  the  pre- 
[185] 


THE    RECKONING 

v  destined  victim  of  the  code  she  had  devised.  But  this 
was  grotesque,  intolerable — a  mad  mistake,  for  which 
she  could  not  be  held  accountable!  The  law  she  had 
despised  was  still  there,  might  still  be  invoked  .  .  . 
invoked,  but  to  what  end?  Could  she  ask  it  to  chain 
Westall  to  her  side  ?  She  had  been  allowed  to  go  free 
when  she  claimed  her  freedom — should  she  show  less 
magnanimity  than  she  had  exacted?  Magnanimity? 
The  word  lashed  her  with  its  irony — one  does  not 
strike  an  attitude  when  one  is  fighting  for  life!  She 
would  threaten,  grovel,  cajole  .  .  .  she  would  yield 
anything  to  keep  her  hold  on  happiness.  Ah,  but  the 
difficulty  lay  deeper!  The  law  could  not  help  her — 
her  own  apostasy  could  not  help  her.  She  was  the 
victim  of  the  theories  she  renounced.  It  was  as  though 
some  giant  machine  of  her  own  making  had  caught 
her  up  in  its  wheels  and  was  grinding  her  to 
atoms.  .  .  . 

It  was  afternoon  when  she  found  herself  out-of- 
doors.  She  walked  with  an  aimless  haste,  fearing  to 
meet  familiar  faces.  The  day  was  radiant,  metallic: 
one  of  those  searching  American  days  so  calculated 
to  reveal  the  shortcomings  of  our  street-cleaning  and 
the  excesses  of  our  architecture.  The  streets  looked 
bare  and  hideous;  everything  stared  and  glittered. 
She  called  a  passing  hansom,  and  gave  Mrs.  Van 
Sideren's  address.  She  did  not  know  what  had  led 
[186] 


THE    RECKONING 

up  to  the  act;  but  she  found  herself  suddenly  re 
solved  to  speak,  to  cry  out  a  warning.  It  was  too  late 
to  save  herself — but  the  girl  might  still  be  told.  The 
hansom  rattled  up  Fifth  Avenue;  she  sat  with  her 
eyes  fixed,  avoiding  recognition.  At  the  Van  Siderens' 
door  she  sprang  out  and  rang  the  bell.  Action  had 
cleared  her  brain,  and  she  felt  calm  and  self-pos 
sessed.  She  knew  now  exactly  what  she  meant  to  say. 

The  ladies  were  both  out .  . .  the  parlour-maid  stood 
waiting  for  a  card.  Julia,  with  a  vague  murmur, 
turned  away  from  the  door  and  lingered  a  moment  on 
the  sidewalk.  Then  she  remembered  that  she  had  not 
paid  the  cab-driver.  She  drew  a  dollar  from  her  purse 
and  handed  it  to  him.  He  touched  his  hat  and  drove 
off,  leaving  her  alone  in  the  long  empty  street.  She 
wandered  away  westward,  toward  strange  thorough 
fares,  where  she  was  not  likely  to  meet  acquaintances. 
The  feeling  of  aimlessness  had  returned.  Once  she 
found  herself  in  the  afternoon  torrent  of  Broadway, 
swept  past  tawdry  shops  and  flaming  theatrical  post 
ers,  with  a  succession  of  meaningless  faces  gliding  by 
in  the  opposite  direction.  .  .  . 

A  feeling  of  faintness  reminded  her  that  she  had 
not  eaten  since  morning.  She  turned  into  a  side  street 
of  shabby  houses,  with  rows  of  ash-barrels  behind 
bent  area  railings.  In  a  basement  window  she  saw 
the  sign  Ladies'  Restaurant:  a  pie  and  a  dish  of 
[187] 


THE    RECKONING 

doughnuts  lay  against  the  dusty  pane  like  petrified 
food  in  an  ethnological  museum.  She  entered,  and  a 
young  woman  with  a  weak  mouth  and  a  brazen  eye 
cleared  a  table  for  her  near  the  window.  The  table 
was  covered  with  a  red  and  white  cotton  cloth  and 
adorned  with  a  bunch  of  celery  in  a  thick  tumbler  and 
a  salt-cellar  full  of  grayish  lumpy  salt.  Julia  ordered 
tea,  and  sat  a  long  time  waiting  for  it.  She  was  glad 
to  be  away  from  the  noise  and  confusion  of  the  streets. 
The  low-ceilinged  room  was  empty,  and  two  or  three 
waitresses  with  thin  pert  faces  lounged  in  the  back 
ground  staring  at  her  and  whispering  together.  At 
last  the  tea  was  brought  in  a  discoloured  metal  tea 
pot.  Julia  poured  a  cup  and  drank  it  hastily.  It  was 
black  and  bitter,  but  it  flowed  through  her  veins  like 
an  elixir.  She  was  almost  dizzy  with  exhilaration.  Oh, 
how  tired,  how  unutterably  tired  she  had  been! 

She  drank  a  second  cup,  blacker  and  bitterer,  and 
now  her  mind  was  once  more  working  clearly.  She 
felt  as  vigourous,  as  decisive,  as  when  she  had  stood 
on  the  Van  Siderens'  door-step — but  the  wish  to  re 
turn  there  had  subsided.  She  saw  now  the  futility  of 
such  an  attempt — the  humiliation  to  which  it  might 
have  exposed  her.  .  .  .  The  pity  of  it  was  that  she 
did  not  know  what  to  do  next.  The  short  winter  day 
was  fading,  and  she  realised  that  she  could  not  re 
main  much  longer  in  the  restaurant  without  attracting 
[188] 


THE    RECKONING 

notice.  She  paid  for  her  tea  and  went  out  into  the 
street.  The  lamps  were  alight,  and  here  and  there  a 
basement  shop  cast  an  oblong  of  gas-light  across  the 
fissured  pavement.  In  the  dusk  there  was  something 
sinister  about  the  aspect  of  the  street,  and  she  hast 
ened  back  toward  Fifth  Avenue.  She  was  not  used  to 
being  out  alone  at  that  hour. 

At  the  corner  of  Fifth  Avenue  she  paused  and 
stood  watching  the  stream  of  carriages.  At  last  a  po 
liceman  caught  sight  of  her  and  signed  to  her  that  he 
would  take  her  across.  She  had  not  meant  to  cross 
the  street,  but  she  obeyed  automatically,  and  pres 
ently  found  herself  on  the  farther  corner.  There  she 
paused  again  for  a  moment;  but  she  fancied  the  po 
liceman  was  watching  her,  and  this  sent  her  hasten 
ing  down  the  nearest  side  street.  .  .  .  After  that  she 
walked  a  long  time,  vaguely.  .  .  .  Night  had  fallen, 
and  now  and  then,  through  the  windows  of  a  passing 
carriage,  she  caught  the  expanse  of  an  evening  waist 
coat  or  the  shimmer  of  an  opera  cloak.  .  .  . 

Suddenly  she  found  herself  in  a  familiar  street. 
She  stood  still  a  moment,  breathing  quickly.  She  had 
turned  the  corner  without  noticing  whither  it  led;  but 
now,  a  few  yards  ahead  of  her,  she  saw  the  house  in 
which  she  'had  once  lived — her  first  husband's  house. 
The  blinds  were  drawn,  and  only  a  faint  translucence 
marked  the  windows  and  the  transom  above  the  door. 
[189] 


THE    RECKONING 

As  she  stood  there  she  heard  a  step  behind  her,  and 
a  man  walked  by  in  the  direction  of  the  house.  He 
walked  slowly,  with  a  heavy  middle-aged  gait,  his 
head  sunk  a  little  between  the  shoulders,  the  red 
crease  of  his  neck  visible  above  the  fur  collar  of  his 
overcoat.  He  crossed  the  street,  went  up  the  steps  of 
the  house,  drew  forth  a  latch-key,  and  let  himself 
in.  ... 

There  was  no  one  else  in  sight.  Julia  leaned  for  a 
long  time  against  the  area-rail  at  the  corner,  her  eyes 
fixed  on  the  front  of  the  house.  The  feeling  of  phys 
ical  weariness  had  returned,  but  the  strong  tea  still 
throbbed  in  her  veins  and  lit  her  brain  with  an  un 
natural  clearness.  Presently  she  heard  another  step 
draw  near,  and  moving  quickly  away,  she  too  crossed 
the  street  and  mounted  the  steps  of  the  house.  The 
impulse  which  had  carried  her  there  prolonged  itself 
in  a  quick  pressure  of  the  electric  bell — then  she  felt 
suddenly  weak  and  tremulous,  and  grasped  the  balus 
trade  for  support.  The  door  opened  and  a  young  foot 
man  with  a  fresh  inexperienced  face  stood  on  the 
threshold.  Julia  knew  in  an  instant  that  he  would 
admit  her. 

"I  saw  Mr.  Arment  going  in  just  now,"  she  said. 
"Will  you  ask  him  to  see  me  for  a  moment?" 

The  footman  hesitated.  "I  think  Mr.  Arment  has 
gone  up  to  dress  for  dinner,  madam." 
[190] 


THE    RECKONING 

Julia  advanced  into  the  hall.  "I  am  sure  he  will 
see  me — I  will  not  detain  him  long,"  she  said.  She 
spoke  quietly,  authoritatively,  in  the  tone  which  a 
good  servant  does  not  mistake.  The  footman  had  his 
hand  on  the  drawing-room  door. 

"I  will  tell  him,  madam.  What  name,  please?" 

Julia  trembled:  she  had  not  thought  of  that. 
"Merely  say  a  lady,"  she  returned  carelessly. 

The  footman  wavered  and  she  fancied  herself  lost; 
but  at  that  instant  the  door  opened  from  within  and 
John  Arment  stepped  into  the  hall.  He  drew  back 
sharply  as  he  saw  her,  his  florid  face  turning  sallow 
with  the  shock;  then  the  blood  poured  back  to  it, 
swelling  the  veins  on  his  temples  and  reddening  the 
lobes  of  his  thick  ears. 

It  was  long  since  Julia  had  seen  him,  and  she  was 
startled  at  the  change  in  his  appearance.  He  had 
thickened,  coarsened,  settled  down  into  the  enclosing 
flesh.  But  she  noted  this  insensibly:  her  one  conscious 
thought  was  that,  now  she  was  face  to  face  with  him, 
she  must  not  let  him  escape  till  he  had  heard  her. 
Every  pulse  in  her  body  throbbed  with  the  urgency  of 
her  message. 

She  went  up  to  him  as  he  drew  back.  "I  must  speak 
to  you,"  she  said. 

Arment  hesitated,  red  and  stammering.  Julia 
glanced  at  the  footman,  and  her  look  acted  as  a 
[191] 


THE   RECKONING 

warning.  The  instinctive  shrinking  from  a  "scene" 
predominated  over  every  other  impulse,  and  Arment 
said  slowly:  "Will  you  come  this  way?" 

He  followed  her  into  the  drawing-room  and  closed 
the  door.  Julia,  as  she  advanced,  was  vaguely  aware 
that  the  room  at  least  was  unchanged:  time  had  not 
mitigated  its  horrors.  The  contadina  still  lurched 
from  the  chimney-breast,  and  the  Greek  slave  ob 
structed  the  threshold  of  the  inner  room.  The  place 
was  alive  with  memories:  they  started  out  from  every 
fold  of  the  yellow  satin  curtains  and  glided  between 
the  angles  of  the  rosewood  furniture.  But  while  some 
subordinate  agency  was  carrying  these  impressions  to 
her  brain,  her  whole  conscious  effort  was  centred  in 
the  act  of  dominating  Arment's  will.  The  fear  that  he 
would  refuse  to  hear  her  mounted  like  fever  to  her 
brain.  She  felt  her  purpose  melt  before  it,  words  and 
arguments  running  into  each  other  in  the  heat  of  her 
longing.  For  a  moment  her  voice  failed  her,  and  she 
imagined  herself  thrust  out  before  she  could  speak; 
but  as  she  was  struggling  for  a  word  Arment  pushed 
a  chair  forward,  and  said  quietly:  "You  are  not  well." 

The  sound  of  his  voice  steadied  her.  It  was  neither 
kind  nor  unkind — a  voice  that  suspended  judgment, 
rather,  awaiting  unforseen  developments.  She  sup 
ported  herself  against  the  back  of  the  chair  and  drew 
a  deep  breath. 

[192] 


THE    RECKONING 

"Shall  I  send  for  something?"  he  continued,  with 
a  cold  embarrassed  politeness. 

Julia  raised  an  entreating  hand.  "No — no — thank 
you.  I  am  quite  well." 

He  paused  midway  toward  the  bell,  and  turned  on 
her.  "Then  may  I  ask—?" 

"Yes,"  she  interrupted  him.  "I  came  here  because 
I  wanted  to  see  you.  There  is  something  I  must  tell 
you." 

Arment  continued  to  scrutinise  her.  "I  am  sur 
prised  at  that,"  he  said.  "I  should  have  supposed  that 
any  communication  you  may  wish  to  make  could  have 
been  made  through  our  lawyers." 

"Our  lawyers!"  She  burst  into  a  little  laugh.  "I 
don't  think  they  could  help  me — this  time." 

Arment's  face  took  on  a  barricaded  look.  "If  there 
is  any  question  of  help — of  course — " 

It  struck  her,  whimsically,  that  she  had  seen  that 
look  when  some  shabby  devil  called  with  a  subscrip 
tion-book.  Perhaps  he  thought  she  wanted  him  to  put 
his  name  down  for  so  much  in  sympathy — or  even  in 
money.  .  .  .  The  thought  made  her  laugh  again.  She 
saw  his  look  change  slowly  to  perplexity.  All  his 
facial  changes  were  slow,  and  she  remembered,  sud 
denly,  how  it  had  once  diverted  her  to  shift  that  lum 
bering  scenery  with  a  word.  For  the  first  time  it  struck 
her  that  she  had  been  cruel.  "There  is  a  question  of 
[193] 


THE    RECKONING 

help,"  she  said  in  a  softer  key;  "you  can  help  me; 
but  only  by  listening.  ...  I  want  to  tell  you  some 
thing.  .  .  ." 

Arment's  resistance  was  not  yielding.  "Would  it 
not  be  easier  to — write?"  he  suggested. 

She  shook  her  head.  "There  is  no  time  to  write  .  .  . 
and  it  won't  take  long."  She  raised  her  head  and  their 
eyes  met.  "My  husband  has  left  me,"  she  said. 

"Westall — ?"  he  stammered,  reddening  again. 

"Yes.  This  morning.  Just  as  I  left  you.  Because 
he  was  tired  of  me." 

The  words,  uttered  scarcely  above  a  whisper, 
seemed  to  dilate  to  the  limit  of  the  room.  Arment 
looked  toward  the  door;  then  his  embarrassed  glance 
returned  to  Julia. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said  awkwardly, 

"Thank  you,"  she  murmured. 

"But  I  don't  see—" 

"No — but  you  will — in  a  moment.  Won't  you 
listen  to  me?  Please!"  Instinctively  she  had  shifted 
her  position,  putting  herself  between  him  and  the 
door.  "It  happened  this  morning,"  she  went  on  in 
short  breathless  phrases.  "I  never  suspected  any 
thing — I  thought  we  were — perfectly  happy.  .  .  . 
Suddenly  he  told  me  he  was  tired  of  me  .  .  .  there 
is  a  girl  he  likes  better.  ...  He  has  gone  to  her.  .  .  ." 
As  she  spoke,  the  lurking  anguish  rose  upon  her,  pos- 
[194] 


THE    RECKONING 

sessing  her  once  more  to  the  exclusion  of  every  other 
emotion.  Her  eyes  ached,  her  throat  swelled  with  it, 
and  two  painful  tears  ran  down  her  face. 

Arment's  constraint  was  increasing  visibly.  "This 
— this  is  very  unfortunate,"  he  began.  "But  I  should 
say  the  law — " 

"The  law?"  she  echoed  ironically.  "When  he  asks 
for  his  freedom?" 

"You  are  not  obliged  to  give  it." 

"You  were  not  obliged  to  give  me  mine — but  you 
did." 

He  made  a  protesting  gesture. 

"You  saw  that  the  law  couldn't  help  you — didn't 
you?"  she  went  on.  "That  is  what  I  see  now.  The 
law  represents  material  rights — it  can't  go  beyond. 
If  we  don't  recognise  an  inner  law  .  .  .  the  obliga 
tion  that  love  creates  .  .  .  being  loved  as  well  as  lov 
ing  .  .  .  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  our  spreading 
ruin  unhindered  ...  is  there?"  She  raised  her  head 
plaintively,  with  the  look  of  a  bewildered  child. 
"That  is  what  I  see  now  .  .  .  what  I  wanted  to  tell 
you.  He  leaves  me  because  he's  tired  .  .  .  but  I  was 
not  tired;  and  I  don't  understand  why  he  is.  That's 
the  dreadful  part  of  it — the  not  understanding:  I 
hadn't  realised  what  it  meant.  But  I've  been  think 
ing  of  it  all  day,  and  things  have  come  back  to  me — 
things  I  hadn't  noticed  .  .  .  when  you  and  I  ..." 
[195] 


THE    RECKONING 

She  moved  closer  to  him,  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  his 
with  the  gaze  which  tries  to  reach  beyond  words.  "I 
see  now  that  you  didn't  understand — did  you?" 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  sudden  shock  of  compre 
hension:  a  veil  seemed  to  be  lifted  between  them. 
Arment's  lip  trembled. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  didn't  understand." 

She  gave  a  little  cry,  almost  of  triumph.  "I  knew 
it!  I  knew  it!  You  wondered — you  tried  to  tell  me — 
but  no  words  came.  .  .  .  You  saw  your  life  falling 
in  ruins  .  .  .  the  world  slipping  from  you  .  .  .  and 
you  couldn't  speak  or  move!" 

She  sank  down  on  the  chair  against  which  she  had 
been  leaning.  "Now  I  know — now  I  know,"  she  re 
peated. 

"I  am  very  sorry  for  you,"  she  heard  Arment 
stammer. 

She  looked  up  quickly.  "That's  not  what  I  came 
for.  I  don't  want  you  to  be  sorry.  I  came  to  ask  you 
to  forgive  me  ...  for  not  understanding  that  you 
didn't  understand.  .  .  .  That's  all  I  wanted  to  say." 
She  rose  with  a  vague  sense  that  the  end  had  come, 
and  put  out  a  groping  hand  toward  the  door. 

Arment  stood  motionless.  She  turned  to  him  with 
a  faint  smile. 

"You  forgive  me?" 

"There  is  nothing  to  forgive—" 
[196] 


THE    RECKONING 

"Then  you  will  shake  hands  for  good-bye?"     She 
felt  his  hand  in  hers:  it  was  nerveless,  reluctant. 
"Good-bye,"  she  repeated.     "I  understand  now." 
She  opened  the  door  and  passed  out  into  the  hall. 
As  she  did  so,  Arment  took  an  impulsive  step  for 
ward;  but  just  then  the  footman,  who  was  evidently 
alive    to    his    obligations,    advanced    from   the   back 
ground  to  let  her  out.  She  heard  Arment  fall  back. 
The  footman  threw  open  the  door,  and  she  found  her 
self  outside  in  the  darkness. 


[197] 


EXPIATION 


EXPIATION 


""IT  CAN  never,"  said  Mrs.  Fetherel,  "hear  the  bell 

ring  without  a  shudder." 

-*-  Her  unruffled  aspect — she  was  the  kind  of 
woman  whose  emotions  never  communicate  themselves 
to  her  clothes — and  the  conventional  background  of  the 
New  York  drawing-room,  with  its  pervading  implica 
tion  of  an  imminent  tea-tray  and  of  an  atmosphere  in 
which  the  social  functions  have  become  purely  reflex, 
lent  to  her  declaration  a  relief  not  lost  on  her  cousin 
Mrs.  Clinch,  who,  from  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace, 
agreed,  with  a  glance  at  the  clock,  that  it  was  the  hour 
for  bores. 

"Bores!"  cried  Mrs.  Fetherel  impatiently.  "If  I 
shuddered  at  them,  I  should  have  a  chronic  ague!" 

She  leaned  forward  and  laid  a  sparkling  finger  on 
'her  cousin's  shabby  black  knee.  "I  mean  the  news 
paper  clippings,"  she  whispered. 

Mrs.  Clinch  returned  a  glance  of  intelligence. 
"They've  begun  already?" 

"Not  yet;  but  they're  sure  to  now,  at  any  minute, 
my  publisher  tells  me." 

Mrs.  Fetherel's  look  of  apprehension  sat  oddly  on 
her  small  features,  which  had  an  air  of  neat  sym- 
[201] 


EXPIATION 

metry  somehow  suggestive  of  being  set  in  order  every 
morning  by  the  housemaid.  Someone  (there  were  ru 
mours  that  it  was  her  cousin)  had  once  said  that  Paula 
Fetherel  would  have  been  very  pretty  if  she  hadn't 
looked  so  like  a  moral  axiom  in  a  copy-book  hand. 

Mrs.  Clinch  received  her  confidence  with  a  smile. 
"Well,"  she  said,  "I  suppose  you  were  prepared  for 
the  consequences  of  authorship?" 

Mrs.  Fetherel  blushed  brightly.  "It  isn't  their  com 
ing,"  she  owned — "it's  their  coming  now" 

"Now?" 

"The  Bishop's  in  town." 

Mrs.  Clinch  leaned  back  and  shaped  her  lips  to  a 
whistle  which  deflected  in  a  laugh.  "Well !"  she  said. 

"You  see!"  Mrs.  Fetherel  triumphed. 

"Well — weren't   you   prepared   for  the   Bishop?" 

"Not  now — at  least,  I  hadn't  thought  of  his  seeing 
the  clippings." 

"And  why  should  he  see  them?" 

"Bella — won't  you  understand?  It's  John." 

"John?" 

"Who  has  taken  the  most  unexpected  tone — one 
might  almost  say  out  of  perversity." 

"Oh,  perversity — "  Mrs.  Clinch  murmured,  observ 
ing  her  cousin  between  lids  wrinkled  by  amusement. 
"What  tone  has  John  taken?" 

Mrs.  Fetherel  threw  out  her  answer  with  the  des- 
[202] 


EXPIATION 

perate  gesture  of  a  woman  who  lays  bare  the  traces 
of  a  marital  fist.  "The  tone  of  being  proud  of  my 
book/' 

The  measure  of  Mrs.  Clinch's  enjoyment  over 
flowed  in  laughter. 

"Oh,  you  may  laugh/'  Mrs  Fetherel  insisted, 
"but  it's  no  joke  to  me.  In  the  first  place,  John's  lik 
ing  the  book  is  so — so — such  a  false  note — it  puts  me 
in  such  a  ridiculous  position;  and  then  it  has  set  him 
watching  for  the  reviews — who  would  ever  have  sus 
pected  John  of  knowing  that  books  were  reviewed? 
Why,  he's  actually  found  out  about  the  Clipping  Bu 
reau,  and  whenever  the  postman  rings  I  hear  John 
rush  out  of  the  library  to  see  if  there  are  any  yellow 
envelopes.  Of  course,  when  they  do  come  he'll  bring 
them  into  the  drawing-room  and  read  them  aloud  to 
everybody  who  happens  to  be  here — and  the  Bishop 
is  sure  to  happen  to  be  here !" 

Mrs.  Clinch  repressed  her  amusement.  "The  pict 
ure  you  draw  is  a  lurid  one,"  she  conceded,  "but  your 
'modesty  strikes  me  as  abnormal,  especially  in  an  au 
thor.  The  chances  are  that  some  of  the  clippings  will 
be  rather  pleasant  reading.  The  critics  are  not  all 
union  men." 

Mrs.  Fetherel  stared.  "Union  men?" 

"Well,  I  mean  they  don't  all  belong  to  the  well- 
known  Society- for-the-Persecution-of-Rising- Authors. 
[203] 


EXPIATION 

Some    of    them    have    even    been    known    to    defy 
its  regulations  and  say  a  good  word  for  a  new  writer." 

"Oh,  I  dare  say/'  said  Mrs.  Fetherel,  with  the 
laugh  her  cousin's  epigram  exacted.  "But  you  don't 
quite  see  my  point.  I'm  not  at  all  nervous  about  the 
success  of  my  book — my  publisher  tells  me  I  have  no 
need  to  be — but  I  am  afraid  of  its  being  a  succes  de 
scandale." 

"Mercy!"  said  Mrs.  Clinch,  sitting  up. 

The  butler  and  footman  at  this  moment  appeared 
with  the  tea-tray,  and  when  they  had  withdrawn,  Mrs. 
Fetherel,  bending  her  brightly  rippled  head  above  the 
kettle,  continued  in  a  murmur  of  avowal,  "The  title, 
even,  is  a  kind  of  challenge." 

"  'Fast  and  Loose/  "  Mrs.  Clinch  mused.  "Yes,  it 
ought  to  take." 

"I  didn't  choose  it  for  that  reason!"  the  author 
protested.  "I  should  have  preferred  something  quieter 
— less  pronounced;  but  I  was  determined  not  to 
shirk  the  responsibility  of  what  I  had  written.  I 
want  people  to  know  beforehand  exactly  what  kind 
of  book  they  are  buying." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs.  Clinch,  "that's  a  degree  of  con 
scientiousness  that  I've  never  met  with  before.  So  few 
books  fulfil  the  promise  of  their  titles  that  expe 
rienced  readers  never  expect  the  fare  to  come  up  to  the 
menu." 

[  204] 


EXPIATION 

"  'Fast  and  Loose'  will  be  no  disappointment  on 
that  score/'  her  cousin  significantly  returned.  "I've 
handled  the  subject  without  gloves.  I've  called  a  spade 
a  spade." 

"You  simply  make  my  mouth  water!  And  to  think 
I  haven't  been  able  to  read  it  yet  because  every  spare 
minute  of  my  time  has  been  given  to  correcting  the 
proofs  of  'How  the  Birds  Keep  Christmas'!  There's 
an  instance  of  the  hardships  of  an  author's  life!" 

Mrs.  Fetherel's  eye  clouded.  "Don't  joke,  Bella, 
please.  I  suppose  to  experienced  authors  there's  al 
ways  something  absurd  in  the  nervousness  of  a  new 
writer,  but  in  my  case  so  much  is  at  stake;  I've  put 
so  much  of  myself  into  this  book  and  I'm  so  afraid 
of  being  misunderstood  ...  of  being,  as  it  were,  in 
advance  of  my  time  .  .  .  like  poor  Flaubert.  ...  I 
know  you'll  think  me  ridiculous  .  .  .  and  if  only  my 
own  reputation  were  at  stake,  I  should  never  give  it 
a  thought  .  .  .  but  the  idea  of  dragging  John's  name 
through  the  mire  . . ." 

Mrs.  Clinch,  who  had  risen  and  gathered  her  cloak 
about  her,  stood  surveying  from  her  genial  height  her 
cousin's  agitated  countenance. 

"Why  did  you  use  John's  name,  then  ?" 

"That's  another  of  my  difficulties !  I  had  to.  There 
would  have  been  no  merit  in  publishing  such  a  book 
under  an  assumed  name;  it  would  have  been  an  act 
[205] 


EXPIATION 

of  moral  cowardice.  'Fast  and  Loose'  is  not  an  ordi- 
j  nary  novel.  A  writer  who  dares  to  show  up  the  hollow- 
I  ness  of  social  conventions  must  have  the  courage  of 
her  convictions  and  be  willing  to  accept  the  conse 
quences  of  defying  society.  Can  you  imagine  Ibsen  or 
Tolstoy  writing  under  a  false  name?  Mrs.  Fetherel 
lifted  a  tragic  eye  to  her  cousin.  "You  don't  know, 
Bella,  how  often  I've  envied  you  since  I  began  to 
write.  I  used  to  wonder  sometimes — you  won't  mind 
my  saying  so? — why,  with  all  your  cleverness,  you 
hadn't  taken  up  some  more  exciting  subject  than  nat 
ural  history ;  but  I  see  now  how  wise  you  were.  What 
ever  happens,  you  will  never  be  denounced  by  the 
press !" 

"Is  that  what  you're  afraid  of?"  asked  Mrs.  Clinch, 
as  she  grasped  the  bulging  umbrella  which  rested 
against  her  chair.  "My  dear,  if  I  had  ever  had  the 
good  luck  to  be  denounced  by  the  press,  my  brougham 
would  be  waiting  at  the  door  for  me  at  this  very  mo 
ment,  and  I  shouldn't  have  had  to  ruin  this  umbrella  by 
using  it  in  the  rain.  Why,  you  innocent,  if  I'd  ever 
felt  the  slightest  aptitude  for  showing  up  social  con 
ventions,  do  you  suppose  I  should  waste  my  time  writ 
ing  'Nests  Ajar'  and  'How  to  Smell  the  Flowers'? 
There's  a  fairly  steady  demand  for  pseudo-science 
and  colloquial  ornithology,  but  it's  nothing,  simply 
nothing,  to  the  ravenous  call  for  attacks  on  social  in- 
[206] 


EXPIATION 

stitutions — especially    by    those    inside    the    institu 
tions  !" 

There  was  often,  to  her  cousin,  a  lack  of  taste  in 
Mrs.  Clinch's  pleasantries,  and  on  this  occasion  they 
seemed  more  than  usually  irrelevant. 

"  'Fast  and  Loose'  was  not  written  with  the  idea 
of  a  large  sale." 

Mrs.  Clinch  was  unperturbed.  "Perhaps  that's  just 
as  well,"  she  returned,  with  a  philosophic  shrug.  "The 
surprise  will  be  all  the  pleasanter,  I  mean.  For  of 
course  it's  going  to  sell  tremendously;  especially  if 
you  can  get  the  press  to  denounce  it." 

"Bella,  how  can  you?  I  sometimes  think  you  say 
such  things  expressly  to  tease  me;  and  yet  I  should 
think  you  of  all  women  would  understand  my  pur 
pose  in  writing  such  a  book.  It  has  always  seemed  to 
me  that  the  message  I  had  to  deliver  was  not  for  my 
self  alone,  but  for  all  the  other  women  in  the  world 
who  have  felt  the  hollowness  of  our  social  shams, 
the  ignominy  of  bowing  down  to  the  idols  of  the 
market,  but  have  lacked  either  the  courage  or  the 
power  to  proclaim  their  independence;  and  I  have 
fancied,  Bella  dear,  that,  however  severely  society 
might  punish  me  for  revealing  its  weaknesses,  I  could 
count  on  the  sympathy  of  those  who,  like  you" — Mrs. 
Fetherel's  voice  sank — "have  passed  through  the  deep 
waters." 

[207] 


EXPIATION 

Mrs.  Clinch  gave  herself  a  kind  of  canine  shake, 
as  though  to  free  her  ample  shoulders  from  any 
drop  of  the  element  she  was  supposed  to  have  tra 
versed. 

"Oh,  call  them  muddy  rather  than  deep/'  she  re 
turned;  "and  you'll  find,  my  dear,  that  women  who've 
had  any  wading  to  do  are  rather  shy  of  stirring  up 
mud.  It  sticks — especially  on  white  clothes." 

Mrs.  Fetherel  lifted  an  undaunted  brow.  "I'm  not 
afraid,"  she  proclaimed;  and  at  the  same  instant  she 
dropped  her  tea-spoon  with  a  clatter  and  shrank  back 
into  her  seat.  "There's  the  bell,"  she  exclaimed,  "and 
I  know  it's  the  Bishop !" 

It  was  in  fact  the  Bishop  of  Ossining,  who,  impres 
sively  announced  by  Mrs.  Fetherel's  butler,  now  made 
an  entry  that  may  best  be  described  as  not  inadequate 
to  the  expectations  the  announcement  raised.  The 
Bishop  always  entered  a  room  well;  but,  when  unan 
nounced,  or  preceded  by  a  Low  Church  butler  who 
gave  him  his  surname,  his  appearance  lacked  the  im- 
pressiveness  conferred  on  it  by  the  due  specification 
of  his  diocesan  dignity.  The  Bishop  was  very  fond  of 
his  niece  Mrs.  Fetherel,  and  one  of  the  traits  he  most 
valued  in  her  was  the  possession  of  a  butler  who  knew 
how  to  announce  a  bishop. 

Mrs.  Clinch  was  also  his  niece ;  but,  aside  from  the 
fact  that  she  possessed  no  butler  at  all,  she  had  laid 
[208] 


EXPIATION 

herself  open  to  her  uncle's  criticism  by  writing  insig 
nificant  little  books  which  had  a  way  of  going  into  five 
or  ten  editions,  while  the  fruits  of  his  own  episcopal 
leisure — "The  Wail  of  Jonah"  (twenty  cantos  in 
blank  verse),  and  "Through  a  Glass  Brightly;  or,  f 
How  to  Raise  Funds  for  a  Memorial  Window" — in 
explicably  languished  on  the  back  shelves  of  a  pub 
lisher  noted  for  his  dexterity  in  pushing  "devotional 
goods."  Even  this  indiscretion  the  Bishop  might,  how 
ever,  have  condoned,  had  his  niece  thought  fit  to  turn 
to  him  for  support  and  advice  at  the  painful  juncture 
of  her  history  when,  in  her  own  words,  it  became 
necessary  for  her  to  invite  Mr.  Clinch  to  look  out  for 
another  situation.  Mr.  Clinch's  misconduct  was  of  the 
kind  especially  designed  by  Providence  to  test  the 
fortitude  of  a  Christian  wife  and  mother,  and  the 
Bishop  was  absolutely  distended  with  seasonable  ad 
vice  and  edification;  so  that  when  Bella  met  his  ten 
tative  exhortations  with  the  curt  remark  that  she  pre 
ferred  to  do  her  own  housecleaning  unassisted,  her 
uncle's  grief  at  her  ingratitude  was  not  untempered 
with  sympathy  for  Mr.  Clinch. 

It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  the  Bishop's 
warmest  greetings  were  always  reserved  for  Mrs. 
Fetherel;  and  on  this  occasion  Mrs.  Clinch  thought 
she  detected,  in  the  salutation  which  fell  to  her  share, 
a  pronounced  suggestion  that  her  own  presence  was 
[209] 


EXPIATION 

superfluous — a  hint  which  she  took  with  her  usual 
imperturbable  good  humour. 

II 

T  EFT  alone  with  the  Bishop,  Mrs.  Fetherel 
•*-^  sought  the  nearest  refuge  from  conversation  by 
offering  him  a  cup  of  tea.  The  Bishop  accepted  with 
the  preoccupied  air  of  a  man  to  whom,  for  the  mo 
ment,  tea  is  but  a  subordinate  incident.  Mrs.  Fetherel's 
nervousness  increased;  and  knowing  that  the  surest 
way  of  distracting  attention  from  one's  own  affairs 
is  to  affect  an  interest  in  those  of  one's  companion, 
she  hastily  asked  if  her  uncle  had  come  to  town  on 
business. 

"On  business — yes — "  said  the  Bishop  in  an  im 
pressive  tone.  "I  had  to  see  my  publisher,  who  has 
been  behaving  rather  unsatisfactorily  in  regard  to  my 
last  book." 

"Ah — your  last  book?"  faltered  Mrs.  Fetherel, 
with  a  sickening  sense  of  her  inability  to  recall  the 
name  or  nature  of  the  work  in  question,  and  a  mental 
vow  never  again  to  be  caught  in  such  ignorance  of  a 
colleague's  productions. 

"'Through    a    Glass    Brightly,'"   the   Bishop    ex 
plained,  with  an  emphasis  which  revealed  his  detec 
tion  of  her  predicament.   "You  may  remember  that 
I  sent  you  a  copy  last  Christmas?" 
[210] 


EXPIATION 

"Of  course  I  do!"  Mrs.  Fetherel  brightened.  "It 
was  that  delightful  story  of  the  poor  consumptive 
girl  who  had  no  money,  and  two  little  brothers  to  sup 
port — " 

"Sisters — idiot  sisters — "  the  Bishop  gloomily  cor 
rected. 

"I  mean  sisters ;  and  who  managed  to  collect  money 
enough  to  put  up  a  beautiful  memorial  window  to  her 
— her  grandfather,  whom  she  had  never  seen — " 

"But  whose  sermons  had  been  her  chief  consolation 
and  support  during  her  long  struggle  with  poverty 
and  disease."  The  Bishop  gave  the  satisfied  sigh  of 
the  workman  who  reviews  his  completed  task.  "A 
touching  subject,  surely;  and  I  believe  I  did  it  jus 
tice  ;  at  least  so  my  friends  assured  me." 

"Why,  yes — I  remember  there  was  a  splendid  re 
view  of  it  in  the  Reredos!"  cried  Mrs.  Fetherel, 
moved  by  the  incipient  instinct  of  reciprocity. 

"Yes — by  my  dear  friend  Mrs.  Gollinger,  whose 
husband,  the  late  Dean  Gollinger,  was  under  very  par 
ticular  obligations  to  me.  Mrs.  Gollinger  is  a  woman 
of  rare  literary  acumen,  and  her  praise  of  my  book 
was  unqualified ;  but  the  public  wants  more  highly  sea 
soned  fare,  and  the  approval  of  a  thoughtful  church- 
woman  carries  less  weight  than  the  sensational  com 
ments  of  an  illiterate  journalist."  The  Bishop  bent  a 
meditative  eye  on  his  spotless  gaiters.  "At  the  risk  of 
[211] 


EXPIATION 

horrifying  you,  my  dear,"  he  added,  with  a  slight 
laugh,  "I  will  confide  to  you  that  my  best  chance  of 
a  popular  success  would  be  to  have  my  book  de 
nounced  by  the  press." 

"Denounced?"  gasped  Mrs.  Fetherel.  "On  what 
ground  ?" 

"On  the  ground  of  immorality."  The  Bishop  evad 
ed  her  startled  gaze.  "Such  a  thing  is  inconceivable  to 
you,  of  course ;  but  I  am  only  repeating  what  my  pub 
lisher  tells  me.  If,  for  instance,  a  critic  could  be  in 
duced — I  mean,  if  a  critic  were  to  be  found,  who 
called  in  question  the  morality  of  my  heroine  in  sacri 
ficing  her  own  health  and  that  of  her  idiot  sisters  in 
order  to  put  up  a  memorial  window  to  her  grand 
father,  it  would  probably  raise  a  general  controversy 
in  the  newspapers,  and  I  might  count  on  a  sale  of  ten 
or  fifteen  thousand  within  the  next  year.  If  he  de 
scribed  her  as  morbid  or  decadent,  it  might  even  run 
to  twenty  thousand;  but  that  is  more  than  I  permit 
myself  to  hope.  In  fact  I  should  be  satisfied  with 
any  general  charge  of  immorality."  The  Bishop  sighed 
again.  "I  need  hardly  tell  you  that  I  am  actuated  by 
no  mere  literary  ambition.  Those  whose  opinion  I 
most  value  have  assured  me  that  the  book  is  not  with 
out  merit;  but,  though  it  does  not  become  me  to  dis 
pute  their  verdict,  I  can  truly  say  that  my  vanity  as 
an  author  is  not  at  stake.  I  have,  however,  a  special 
[212] 


EXPIATION 

reason  for  wishing  to  increase  the  circulation  of 
'Through  a  Glass  Brightly' ;  it  was  written  for  a  pur 
pose — a  purpose  I  have  greatly  at  heart — " 

"I  know/'  cried  his  niece  sympathetically.  "The 
chantry  window — ?" 

"Is  still  empty,  alas !  and  I  had  great  hopes  that, 
under  Providence,  my  little  book  might  be  the  means 
of  filling  it.  All  our  wealthy  parishioners  have  given 
lavishly  to  the  cathedral,  and  it  was  for  this  reason 
that,  in  writing  'Through  a  Glass,'  I  addressed  my 
appeal  more  especially  to  the  less  well-endowed, 
hoping  by  the  example  of  my  heroine  to  stimulate 
the  collection  of  small  sums  throughout  the  entire 
diocese,  and  perhaps  beyond  it.  I  am  sure,"  the  Bish 
op  feelingly  concluded,  "the  book  would  have  a  wide 
spread  influence  if  people  could  only  be  induced  to 
read  it !" 

His  conclusion  touched  a  fresh  thread  of  associa 
tion  in  Mrs.  Fetherel's  vibrating  nerve-centres.  "I 
never  thought  of  that!"  she  cried. 

The  Bishop  looked  at  her  enquiringly. 

"That  one's  books  may  not  be  read  at  all!  How 
dreadful!"  she  exclaimed. 

He  smiled  faintly.  "I  had  not  forgotten  that  I  was 
addressing  an  authoress,"  he  said.  "Indeed,  I  should 
not  have  dared  to  inflict  my  troubles  on  any  one  not 
of  the  craft." 

[213] 


EXPIATION 

Mrs.  Fetherel  was  quivering  with  the  conscious 
ness  of  her  involuntary  self -betrayal.  "Oh,  uncle!" 
she  murmured. 

"In  fact/'  the  Bishop  continued,  with  a  gesture 
which  seemed  to  brush  away  her  scruples,  "I  came 
here  partly  to  speak  to  you  about  your  novel.  'Fast 
and  Loose,'  I  think  you  call  it?" 

Mrs.  Fetherel  blushed  assentingly. 

"And  is  it  out  yet?"  the  Bishop  continued. 

"It  came  out  about  a  week  ago.  But  you  haven't 
touched  your  tea  and  it  must  be  quite  cold.  Let  me 
give  you  another  cup." 

"My  reason  for  asking,"  the  Bishop  went  on,  with 
the  bland  inexorableness  with  which,  in  his  younger 
days,  he  had  been  known  to  continue  a  sermon  after 
the  senior  warden  had  looked  four  times  at  his  watch 
— "my  reason  for  asking  is,  that  I  hoped  I  might  not 
be  too  late  to  induce  you  to  change  the  title." 

Mrs.  Fetherel  set  down  the  cup  she  had  filled.  "The 
title?"  she  faltered. 

The  Bishop  raised  a  reassuring  hand.  "Don't  mis 
understand  me,  dear  child;  don't  for  a  moment  im 
agine  that  I  take  it  to  be  in  any  way  indicative  of  the 
contents  of  the  book.  I  know  you  too  well  for  that. 
My  first  idea  was  that  it  had  probably  been  forced 
on  you  by  an  unscrupulous  publisher — I  know  too 
well  to  what  ignoble  compromises  one  may  be  driven 
[214] 


EXPIATION 

in  such  cases !  .  .  ."  He  paused,  as  though  to  give  her 
the  opportunity  of  confirming  this  conjecture,  but  she 
preserved  an  apprehensive  silence,  and  he  went  on, 
as  though  taking  up  the  second  point  in  his  sermon — 
"Or,  again,  the  name  may  have  taken  your  fancy 
without  your  realising  all  that  it  implies  to  minds 
more  alive  than  yours  to  offensive  innuendoes.  It  is — 
ahem — excessively  suggestive,  and  I  hope  I  am  not 
too  late  to  warn  you  of  the  false  impression  it  is  like 
ly  to  produce  on  the  very  readers  whose  approbation 
you  would  most  value.  My  friend  Mrs.  Gollinger, 
for  instance — " 

Mrs.  Fetherel,  as  the  publication  of  her  novel  testi 
fied,  was  in  theory  a  woman  of  independent  views; 
and  if  in  practice  she  sometimes  failed  to  live  up  to 
her  standard,  it  was  rather  from  an  irresistible  ten 
dency  to  adapt  herself  to  her  environment  than  from 
any  conscious  lack  of  moral  courage.  The  Bishop's 
exordium  had  excited  in  her  that  sense  of  opposition 
which  such  admonitions  are  apt  to  provoke;  but  as 
he  went  on  she  felt  herself  gradually  enclosed  in  an 
atmosphere  in  which  her  theories  vainly  gasped  for 
breath.  The  Bishop  had  the  immense  dialectical  ad 
vantage  of  invalidating  any  conclusions  at  variance 
with  his  own  by  always  assuming  that  his  premises 
were  among  the  necessary  laws  of  thought.  This 
method,  combined  with  the  habit  of  ignoring  any 
[215] 


EXPIATION 

classifications  but  his  own,  created  an  element  in 
which  the  first  condition  of  existence  was  the  immedi 
ate  adoption  of  his  standpoint;  so  that  his  niece,  as 
she  listened,  seemed  to  feel  Mrs.  Gollinger's  Mechlin 
cap  spreading  its  conventual  shadow  over  her  rebel 
lious  brow  and  the  Revue  de  Paris  at  her  elbow 
turning  into  a  copy  of  the  R credos.  She  had  meant 
to  assure  her  uncle  that  she  was  quite  aware  of  the 
significance  of  the  title  she  had  chosen,  that  it  had 
been  deliberately  selected  as  indicating  the  subject  of 
her  novel,  and  that  the  book  itself  had  been  written 
in  direct  defiance  of  the  class  of  readers  for  whose 
susceptibilities  he  was  alarmed.  The  words  were  al 
most  on  her  lips  when  the  irresistible  suggestion  con 
veyed  by  the  Bishop's  tone  and  language  deflected 
them  into  the  apologetic  murmur,  "Oh,  uncle,  you 
mustn't  think — I  never  meant — "  How  much  farther 
this  current  of  reaction  might  have  carried  her  the 
historian  is  unable  to  compute,  for  at  this  point  the 
door  opened  and  her  husband  entered  the  room. 

"The  first  review  of  your  book !"  he  cried,  flourish 
ing  a  yellow  envelope.  "My  dear  Bishop,  how  lucky 
you're  here !" 

Though  the  trials  of  married  life  have  been  class 
ified  and  catalogued  with  exhaustive  accuracy,  there 
is  one  form  of  conjugal  misery  which  has  perhaps  re 
ceived  inadequate  attention;  and  that  is  the  suffering 
F2161 


EXPIATION 

of  the  versatile  woman  whose  husband  is  not  equally 
adapted  to  all  her  moods.  Every  woman  feels  for  the 
sister  who  is  compelled  to  wear  a  bonnet  which  does 
not  "go"  with  her  gown;  but  how  much  sympathy  is 
given  to  her  whose  husband  refuses  to  harmonise  with 
the  pose  of  the  moment?  Scant  justice  has,  for  in 
stance,  been  done  to  the  misunderstood  wife  whose 
husband  persists  in  understanding  her;  to  the  sub 
missive  helpmate  whose  taskmaster  shuns  every  oppor 
tunity  of  browbeating  her,  and  to  the  generous  and 
impulsive  being  whose  bills  are  paid  with  philosophic 
calm.  Mrs.  Fetherel,  as  wives  go,  had  been  fairly  ex 
empt  from  trials  of  this  nature,  for  her  husband,  if 
undistinguished  by  pronounced  brutality  or  indiffer 
ence,  had  at  least  the  negative  merit  of  being  her  in 
tellectual  inferior.  Landscape-gardeners,  who  are 
aware  of  the  usefulness  of  a  valley  in  emphasising 
the  height  of  a  hill,  can  form  an  idea  of  the  account  to 
which  an  accomplished  woman  may  turn  such  defi 
ciencies  ;  and  it  need  scarcely  be  said  that  Mrs.  Feth 
erel  had  made  the  most  of  her  opportunities.  It  was 
agreeably  obvious  to  every  one,  Fetherel  included, 
that  he  was  not  the  man  to  appreciate  such  a  woman ; 
but  there  are  no  limits  to  man's  perversity,  and  he  did 
his  best  to  invalidate  this  advantage  by  admiring  her 
without  pretending  to  understand  her.  What  she  most 
suffered  from  was  this  fatuous  approval :  the  madden- 
[217] 


EXPIATION 

ing  sense  that,  however  she  conducted  herself,  he 
would  always  admire  her.  Had  he  belonged  to  the 
class  whose  conversational  supplies  are  drawn  from 
the  domestic  circle,  his  wife's  name  would  never  have 
been  off  his  lips ;  and  to  Mrs.  Fetherel's  sensitive  per 
ceptions  his  frequent  silences  were  indicative  of  the 
fact  that  she  was  his  one  topic. 

It  was,  in  part,  the  attempt  to  escape  this  persist 
ent  approbation  that  had  driven  Mrs.  Fetherel  to 
authorship.  She  had  fancied  that  even  the  most  in 
fatuated  husband  might  be  counted  on  to  resent,  at 
least  negatively,  an  attack  on  the  sanctity  of  the 
hearth;  and  her  anticipations  were  heightened  by  a 
sense  of  the  unpardonableness  of  her  act.  Mrs. 
Fetherel's  relations  with  her  husband  were  in  fact 
complicated  by  an  irrepressible  tendency  to  be  fond 
of  him;  and  there  was  a  certain  pleasure  in  the  pros 
pect  of  a  situation  that  justified  the  most  explicit  ex 
piation. 

These  hopes  Fetherel's  attitude  had  already  de 
feated.  He  read  the  book  with  enthusiasm,  he  pressed 
it  on  his  friends,  he  sent  a  copy  to  his  mother ;  and  his 
very  soul  now  hung  on  the  verdict  of  the  reviewers. 
It  was  perhaps  this  proof  of  his  general  inaptitude 
that  made  his  wife  doubly  alive  to  his  special  defects ; 
so  that  his  inopportune  entrance  was  aggravated  by 
the  very  sound  of  his  voice  and  the  hopeless  aberra- 
[218] 


° 

P 


EXPIATION 

tion  of  his  smile.  Nothing,  to  the  observant,  is  more 
indicative  of  a  man's  character  and  circumstances 
than  his  way  of  entering  a  room.  The  Bishop  of  Ossi- 
ning,  for  instance,  brought  with  him  not  only  an  at 
mosphere  of  episcopal  authority,  but  an  implied  opin 
ion  on  the  verbal  inspiration  of  the  Scriptures  and 
on  the  attitude  of  the  Church  toward  divorce;  while 
the  appearance  of  Mrs.  Fetherel's  husband  produced 
an  immediate  impression  of  domestic  felicity.  His 
mere  aspect  implied  that  there  was  a  well-filled  nur 
sery  upstairs ;  that  his  wife,  if  she  did  not  sew  on  his 
buttons,  at  least  superintended  the  performance  of 
that  task;  that  they  both  went  to  church  regularly, 
and  that  they  dined  with  his  mother  every  Sunday 
evening  punctually  at  seven  o'clock. 

All  this  and  more  was  expressed  in  the  affectionate 
gesture  with  which  he  now  raised  the  yellow  envelope 
above  Mrs.  Fetherel's  clutch;  and  knowing  the  use- 
lessness  of  begging  him  not  to  be  silly,  she  said, 
with  a  dry  despair,  "You're  boring  the  Bishop 
^horribly." 

Fetherel  turned  a  radiant  eye  on  that  dignitary. 
"She  bores  us  all  horribly,  doesn't  she,  sir?"  he  ex 
ulted. 

"Have  you  read  it?"  said  his  wife,  uncontrollably. 

"Read   it?    Of   course   not — it's    just   this    minute 
come.     I  say,  Bishop,  you're  not  going — ?" 
[219] 


EXPIATION 

"Not  till  I've  heard  this/'  said  the  Bishop,  settling 
himself  in  his  chair  with  an  indulgent  smile. 

His  niece  glanced  at  him  despairingly  "Don't  let 
John's  nonsense  detain  you/'  she  entreated. 

"Detain  him?  That's  good/'  guffawed  Fetherel. 
"It  isn't  as  long  as  one  of  his  sermons — won't  take 
me  five  minutes  to  read.  Here,  listen  to  this,  ladies  and 
gentlemen:  'In  this  age  of  festering  pessimism  and 
decadent  depravity,  it  is  no  surprise  to  the  nauseated 
reviewer  to  open  one  more  volume  saturated  with  the 
fetid  emanations  of  the  sewer — '  " 

Fetherel,  who  was  not  in  the  habit  of  reading  aloud, 
paused  with  a  gasp,  and  the  Bishop  glanced  sharply 
at  his  niece,  who  kept  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  tea-cup 
she  had  not  yet  succeeded  in  transferring  to  his  hand. 

"  'Of  the  sewer/  "  her  husband  resumed;  "  'but 
his  wonder  is  proportionately  great  when  he  lights  on 
a  novel  as  sweetly  inoffensive  as  Paula  Fetherel's 
"Fast  and  Loose."  Mrs.  Fetherel  is,  we  believe,  a 
new  hand  at  fiction,  and  her  work  reveals  frequent 
traces  of  inexperience ;  but  these  are  more  than  atoned 
for  by  her  pure  fresh  view  of  life  and  her  alto 
gether  unfashionable  regard  for  the  reader's  moral 
susceptibilities.  Let  no  one  be  induced  by  its  distinct 
ly  misleading  title  to  forego  the  enjoyment  of  this 
pleasant  picture  of  domestic  life,  which,  in  spite  of  a 
VI  total  lack  of  force  in  character-drawing  and  of  con- 

[220] 


EXPIATION 

secutiveness  in  incident,  may  be  described  as  a  dis 
tinctly  pretty  story/  " 

III 

T  T  was  several  weeks  later  that  Mrs.  Clinch  once 
-*•  more  brought  the  plebeian  aroma  of  heated  tram- 
cars  and  muddy  street-crossings  into  the  violet-scented 
atmosphere  of  her  cousin's  drawing-room. 

"Well,"  she  said,  tossing  a  damp  bundle  of  proof 
into  the  corner  of  a  silk-cushioned  bergere,  "I've 
read  it  at  last  and  I'm  not  so  awfully  shocked!" 

Mrs.  Fetherel,  who  sat  near  the  fire  with  her  head 
propped  on  a  languid  hand,  looked  up  without  speak 
ing. 

"Mercy,  Paula,"  said  her  visitor,  "you're  ill." 

Mrs.  Fetherel  shook  her  head.  "I  was  never  bet- 
;er,"  she  said,  mournfully. 

"Then  may  I  help  myself  to  tea?  Thanks." 

Mrs.  Clinch  carefully  removed  her  mended  glove 
before  taking  a  buttered  tea-cake;  then  she  glanced 
again  at  her  cousin. 

"It's  not  what  I  said  just  now — ?"  she  ventured. 

"Just  now?" 

"About  'Fast  and  Loose'  ?  I  came  to  talk  it  over." 

•  Mrs.   Fetherel  sprang  to  her   feet.  "I  never,"  she 

cried     dramatically,    "want    to    hear    it     mentioned 


again!" 


[221] 


EXPIATION 

"Paula!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Clinch,  setting  down  her 
cup. 

Mrs.  Fetherel  slowly  turned  on  her  an  eye  brim 
ming  with  the  incommunicable;  then,  dropping  into 
her  seat  again,  she  added,  with  a  tragic  laugh: 
"There's  nothing  left  to  say." 

"Nothing — ?"  faltered  Mrs.  Clinch,  longing  for 
another  tea-cake,  but  feeling  the  inappropriateness 
of  the  impulse  in  an  atmosphere  so  charged  with  the 
portentous.  "Do  you  mean  that  everything  has  been 
said?"  She  looked  tentatively  at  her  cousin.  "Haven't 
they  been  nice?" 

"They've  been  odious — odious — "  Mrs.  Fetherel 
burst  out,  with  an  ineffectual  clutch  at  her  handker 
chief.  "It's  been  perfectly  intolerable!" 

Mrs.  Clinch,  philosophically  resigning  herself  to 
the  propriety  of  taking  no  more  tea,  crossed  over  to 
her  cousin  and  laid  a  sympathising  hand  on  that 
lady's  agitated  shoulder. 

"It  is  a  bore  at  first,"  she  conceded;  "but  you'll  be 
surprised  to  see  how  soon  one  gets  used  to  it." 

"I  shall — never — get — used  to  it — "  Mrs.  Feth 
erel  brokenly  declared. 

"Have  they  been  so  very  nasty — all  of  them?" 

"Every  one  of  them !"  the  novelist  sobbed. 

"I'm   so   sorry,   dear;   it  does  hurt,    I  know — but 
hadn't  you  rather  expected  it?" 
[  222] 


EXPIATION 

"Expected  it?"  cried  Mrs.  Fetherel,  sitting  up. 

Mrs.  Clinch  felt  her  way  warily.  "I  only  mean, 
dear,  that  I  fancied  from  what  you  said  before  the 
book  came  out — that  you  rather  expected — that  you'd 
rather  discounted — " 

"Their  recommending  it  to  everybody  as  a  perfect 
ly  harmless  story?" 

"Good  gracious!  Is  that  what  they've  done?" 

Mrs.  Fetherel  speechlessly  nodded. 

"Every  one  of  them?" 

"Every  one." 

"Whew!"  said  Mrs.  Clinch,  with  an  incipient 
whistle. 

"Why,  you've  just  said  it  yourself!"  her  cousin 
suddenly  reproached  her. 

"Said  what?" 

"That  you  weren't  so  awfully  shocked — " 

"I?  Oh,  well — you  see,  you'd  keyed  me  up  to 
such  a  pitch  that  it  wasn't  quite  as  bad  as  I 
expected — " 

Mrs.  Fetherel  lifted  a  smile  steeled  for  the  worst. 
"Why  not  say  at  once,"  she  suggested,  "that  it's  a 
distinctly  pretty  story?" 

"They  haven't  said  that?" 

"They've  all  said  it." 

"My  poor  Paula!" 

"Even  the  Bishop—" 

[223] 


EXPIATION 

"The  Bishop  called  it  a  pretty  story?" 

"He  wrote  me — I've  his  letter  somewhere.  The  title 
rather  scared  him — he  wanted  me  to  change  it;  but 
when  he'd  read  the  book  he  wrote  that  it  was  all  right 
and  that  he'd  sent  several  copies  to  his  friends." 

"The  old  hypocrite !"  cried  Mrs.  Clinch.  "That  was 
nothing  but  professional  jealousy." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  cried  her  cousin,  brightening. 

"Sure  of  it,  my  dear.  His  own  books  don't  sell, 
and  he  knew  the  quickest  way  to  kill  yours  was 
to  distribute  it  through  the  diocese  with  his  bless 
ing." 

"Then  you  don't  really  think  it's  a  pretty  story?" 
V  "Dear  me,  no !    Not  nearly  as  bad  as  that — " 

"You're  so  good,  Bella — but  the  reviewers?" 

"Oh,  the  reviewers,"  Mrs.  Clinch  jeered.  She  gazed 
meditatively  at  the  cold  remains  of  her  tea-cake. 
"Let  me  see,"  she  said,  suddenly;  "do  you  happen  to 
remember  if  the  first  review  came  out  in  an  important 
paper?" 

"Yes— the  Radiator." 

"That's  it!  I  thought  so.  Then  the  others  simply 
r   i    followed  suit:  they  often  do  if  a  big  paper  sets  the 
pace.  Saves  a  lot  of  trouble.  Now  if  you  could  only 
have  got  the  Radiator  to  denounce  you — " 

"That's  what  the  Bishop  said!"  cried  Mrs.  Feth- 
erel. 

[224] 


EXPIATION 

"He  did?" 

"He  said  his  only  chance  of  selling  'Through  a 
Glass  Brightly'  was  to  have  it  denounced  on  the 
ground  of  immorality." 

"H'm,"  said  Mrs.  Clinch,  "I  thought  he  knew  a  trick 
or  two."  She  turned  an  illuminated  eye  on  her  cousin. 
"You  ought  to  get  him  to  denounce  'Fast  and  Loose' !" 
she  cried. 

Mrs,  Fetherel  looked  at  her  suspiciously.  "I  sup 
pose  every  book  must  stand  or  fall  on  its  own  merits," 
she  said  in  an  unconvinced  tone. 

"Bosh!  That  view  is  as  extinct  as  the  post-chaise 
and  the  packet-ship — it  belongs  to  the  time  when  peo 
ple  read  books.  Nobody  does  that  now;  the  reviewer 
was  the  first  to  set  the  example,  and  the  public  were 
only  too  thankful  to  follow  it.  At  first  they  read  the 
reviews;  now  they  read  only  the  publishers'  extracts 
from  them.  Even  these  are  rapidly  being  replaced  by 
paragraphs  borrowed  from  the  vocabulary  of  com 
merce.  I  often  have  to  look  twice  before  I  am  sure  if 
I  am  reading  a  department-store  advertisement  or  the 
announcement  of  a  new  batch  of  literature.  The  pub 
lishers  will  soon  be  having  their  'fall  and  spring  open 
ings'  and  their  'special  importations  for  Horse-Show 
Week.'  But  the  Bishop  is  right,  of  course — nothing 
helps  a  book  like  a  rousing  attack  on  its  morals;  and 
as  the  publishers  can't  exactly  proclaim  the  impro- 
[225] 


EXPIATION 

priety  of  their  own  wares,  the  task  has  to  be  left  to 
the  press  or  the  pulpit." 

"The  pulpit — ?"  Mrs.  Fetherel  mused. 

"Why,  yes — look  at  those  two  novels  in  England 
last  year — " 

Mrs.  Fetherel  shook  her  head  hopelessly.  "There  is 
j  so  much  more  interest  in  literature  in  England  than 
here." 

"Well,  we've  got  to  make  the  supply  create  the  de 
mand.  The  Bishop  could  run  your  novel  up  into  the 
hundred  thousands  in  no  time." 

"But  if  he  can't  make  his  own  sell — " 

"My  dear,  a  man  can't  very  well  preach  against 
his  own  writings !" 

Mrs.  Clinch  rose  and  picked  up  her  proofs. 

"I'm  awfully  sorry  for  you,  Paula  dear,"  she  con 
cluded,  "but  I  can't  help  being  thankful  that  there's 
no  demand  for  pessimism  in  the  field  of  natural  his 
tory.  Fancy  having  to  write  'The  Fall  of  a  Sparrow/ 
or  'How  the  Plants  Misbehave' !" 

IV 

"li/TRS  FETHEREL,  driving  up  to  the  Grand 
•*--*•  Central  Station  one  morning  about  five  months 
later,  caught  sight  of  the  distinguished  novelist, 
Archer  Hynes,  hurrying  into  the  waiting-room  ahead 
of  her.  Hynes,  on  his  side,  recognising  her  brougham, 
[226] 


EXPIATION 

turned  back  to  greet  her  as  the  footman  opened  the 
carriage  door. 

"My  dear  colleague!  Is  it  possible  that  we  are 
travelling  together?" 

Mrs.  Fetherel  blushed  with  pleasure.  Hynes  had 
given  her  two  columns  of  praise  in  the  Sunday  Me 
teor,  and  she  had  not  yet  learned  to  disguise  her  grat 
itude. 

"I  am  going  to  Ossining,"  she  said  smilingly. 

"So  am  I.  Why,  this  is  almost  as  good  as  an  elope 
ment." 

"And  it  will  end  where  elopements  ought  to — in 
church." 

"In  church?  You're  not  going  to  Ossining  to  go 
to  church?" 

"Why  not?  There's  a  special  ceremony  in  the  cathe 
dral — the  chantry  window  is  to  be  unveiled." 

"The  chantry  window?  How  picturesque!  What  is 
a  chantry  ?  And  why  do  you  want  to  see  it  unveiled  ? 
j,  Are  you  after  copy — doing  something  in  the  Huys- 
mans  manner?  'La  Cathedrale,'  eh?" 

"Oh,  no."  Mrs.  Fetherel  hesitated.  "I'm  going 
simply  to  please  my  uncle,"  she  said,  at  last. 

"Your  uncle?" 

"The  Bishop,  you  know."  She  smiled. 

"The  Bishop — the  Bishop  of  Ossining?  Why, 
wasn't  he  the  chap  who  made  that  ridiculous  attack  on 
[227] 


EXPIATION 

your  book?  Is  that  prehistoric  ass  your  uncle?  Upon 
my  soul,  I  think  you're  mighty  forgiving  to  travel  all 
the  way  to  Ossining  for  one  of  his  stained-glass  so 
ciables  !" 

Mrs.  FethereFs  smiles  flowed  into  a  gentle  laugh. 
"Oh,  I've  never  allowed  that  to  interfere  with  our 
friendship.  My  uncle  felt  dreadfully  about  having 
to  speak  publicly  against  my  book — it  was  a  great  deal 
harder  for  him  than  for  me — but  he  thought  it  his 
duty  to  do  so.  He  has  the  very  highest  sense  of  duty." 

"Well,"  said  Hynes,  with  a  shrug,  "I  don't  know 
that  he  didn't  do  you  a  good  turn.  Look  at  that !" 

They  were  standing  near  the  book-stall  and  he 
pointed  to  a  placard  surmounting  the  counter  and  em 
blazoned  with  the  conspicuous  announcement:  "Fast 
and  Loose.  New  Edition  with  Author's  Portrait.  Hun 
dred  and  Fiftieth  Thousand." 

Mrs.  Fetherel  frowned  impatiently.  "How  absurd! 
They've  no  right  to  use  my  picture  as  a  poster !" 

"There's  our  train,"  said  Hynes ;  and  they  began  to 
push  their  way  through  the  crowd  surging  toward  one 
of  the  inner  doors. 

As  they  stood  wedged  between  circumferent  shoul 
ders,  Mrs.  Fetherel  became  conscious  of  the  fixed 
stare  of  a  pretty  girl  who  whispered  eagerly  to  her 
companion:  "Look,  Myrtle!  That's  Paula  Fetherel 
right  behind  us — I  knew  her  in  a  minute !" 
[228] 


EXPIATION 

"Gracious — where?"  cried  the  other  girl,  giving 
her  head  a  twist  which  swept  her  Gainsborough 
plumes  across  Mrs.  Fetherel's  face. 

The  first  speaker's  words  had  carried  beyond  her 
companion's  ear,  and  a  lemon-coloured  woman  in  spec 
tacles,  who  clutched  a  copy  of  the  "Journal  of  Psy 
chology"  in  one  drab-cotton-gloved  hand,  stretched 
her  disengaged  hand  across  the  intervening  barrier 
of  humanity. 

"Have  I  the  privilege  of  addressing  the  distin 
guished  author  of  'Fast  and  Loose'?  If  so,  let  me 
thank  you  in  the  name  of  the  Woman's  Psychological 
League  of  Peoria  for  your  magnificent  courage  in 
raising  the  standard  of  revolt  against — " 

"You  can  tell  us  the  rest  in  the  car,"  said  a  fat  man, 
pressing  his  good-humoured  bulk  against  the  speaker's 
arm. 

Mrs.  Fetherel,  blushing,  embarrassed  and  happy, 
slipped  into  the  space  produced  by  this  displacement, 
and  a  few  moments  later  had  taken  her  seat  in  the 
train. 

She  was  a  little  late,  and  the  other  chairs  were  al 
ready  filled  by  a  company  of  elderly  ladies  and  clergy 
men  who  seemed  to  belong  to  the  same  party,  and 
were  still  busy  exchanging  greetings  and  settling 
themselves  in  their  places. 

One  of  the  ladies,  at  Mrs.  Fetherel's  approach, 
[229] 


EXPIATION 

uttered  an  exclamation  of  pleasure  and  advanced  with 
outstretched  hand.  "My  dear  Mrs.  Fetherel !  I  am  so 
delighted  to  see  you  here.  May  I  hope  you  are  going 
to  the  unveiling  of  the  chantry  window?  The  dear 
Bishop  so  hoped  that  you  would  do  so !  But  perhaps  I 
ought  to  introduce  myself.  I  am  Mrs.  Gollinger" — 
she  lowered  her  voice  expressively — "one  of  your 
uncle's  oldest  friends,  one  who  has  stood  close  to  him 
through  all  this  sad  business,,  and  who  knows  what  he 
suffered  when  he  felt  obliged  to  sacrifice  family  af 
fection  to  the  call  of  duty." 

Mrs.  Fetherel,  who  had  smiled  and  coloured  slight 
ly  at  the  beginning  of  this  speech,  received  its  close 
with  a  deprecating  gesture. 

"Oh,  pray  don't  mention  it,"  she  murmured.  "I 
quite  understood  how  my  uncle  was  placed — I  bore 
him  no,  ill  will  for  feeling  obliged  to  preach  against 
my  book." 

"He  understood  that,  and  was  so  touched  by  it !  He 
has  often  told  me  that  it  was  the  hardest  task  he  was 
ever  called  upon  to  perform — and,  do  you  know,  he 
quite  feels  that  this  unexpected  gift  of  the  chantry 
window  is  in  some  way  a  return  for  his  courage  in 
preaching  that  sermon." 

Mrs.  Fetherel  smiled  faintly.  "Does  he  feel  that?" 

"Yes;  he  really  does.  When  the  funds  for  the  win 
dow  were  so  mysteriously  placed  at  his  disposal,  just 
[230] 


EXPIATION 

as  he  had  begun  to  despair  of  raising  them,  he  assured 
me  that  he  could  not  help  connecting  the  fact  with 
his  denunciation  of  your  book." 

"Dear  uncle!"  sighed  Mrs.  Fetherel.  "Did  he  say 
that?" 

"And  now,"  continued  Mrs.  Gollinger,  with  cumu 
lative  rapture — "now  that  you  are  about  to  show,  by 
appearing  at  the  ceremony  to-day,  that  there  has  been 
no  break  in  your  friendly  relations,  the  dear  Bishop's 
happiness  will  be  complete.  He  was  so  longing  to 
have  you  come  to  the  unveiling !" 

"He  might  have  counted  on  me,"  said  Mrs.  Feth 
erel,  still  smiling. 

"Ah,  that  is  so  beautifully  forgiving  of  you !"  cried 
Mrs.  Gollinger  enthusiastically.  "But  then,  the  Bish 
op  has  always  assured  me  that  your  real  nature  was 
very  different  from  that  which — if  you  will  pardon 
my  saying  so — seems  to  be  revealed  by  your  brilliant 
but — er — rather  subversive  book.  'If  you  only  knew  f 
my  niece,  dear  Mrs.  Gollinger,'  he  always  said,  'you 
would  see  that  her  novel  was  written  in  all  innocence 
of  heart ;'  and  to  tell  you  the  truth,  when  I  first  read 
the  book  I  didn't  think  it  so  very,  very  shocking.  It 
wasn't  till  the  dear  Bishop  had  explained  to  me — but, 
dear  me,  I  mustn't  take  up  your  time  in  this  way  when 
so  many  others  are  anxious  to  have  a  word  with  you." 

Mrs.  Fetherel  glanced  at  her  in  surprise,  and  Mrs. 
[231] 


EXPIATION 

Gollinger  continued  with  a  playful  smile:  "You  for 
get  that  your  face  is  familiar  to  thousands  whom  you 
have  never  seen.  We  all  recognised  you  the  moment 
you  entered  the  train,  and  my  friends  here  are  so 
eager  to  make  your  acquaintance — even  those" — her 
smile  deepened — "who  thought  the  dear  Bishop  not 
quite  unjustified  in  his  attack  on  your  remarkable 
novel." 


A  RELIGIOUS  light  filled  the  chantry  of  Os- 
•**•  sining  Cathedral,  filtering  through  the  linen  cur 
tain  which  veiled  the  central  window  and  mingling 
with  the  blaze  of  tapers  on  the  richly  adorned  altar. 
In  this  devout  atmosphere,  agreeably  laden  with 
the  incense-like  aroma  of  Easter  lilies  and  forced  li 
lacs,  Mrs.  Fetherel  knelt  with  a  sense  of  luxurious  sat 
isfaction.  Beside  her  sat  Archer  Hynes,  who  had  re 
membered  that  there  was  to  be  a  church  scene  in  his 
next  novel  and  that  his  impressions  of  the  devotional 
environment  needed  refreshing.  Mrs.  Fetherel  was 
very  happy.  She  was  conscious  that  her  entrance  had 
sent  a  thrill  through  the  female  devotees  who  packed 
the  chantry,  and  she  had  humour  enough  to  enjoy  the 
thought  that,  but  for  the  good  Bishop's  denunciation 
of  her  book,  the  heads  of  his  flock  would  not  have 
been  turned  so  eagerly  in  her  direction.  Moreover,  as 
[232] 


EXPIATION 

she  entered  she  had  caught  sight  of  a  society  re 
porter,  and  she  knew  that  her  presence,  and  the  fact 
that  she  was  accompanied  by  Hynes,  would  be  con 
spicuously  proclaimed  in  the  morning  papers.  All 
these  evidences  of  the  success  of  her  handiwork  might 
have  turned  a  calmer  head  than  Mrs.  Fetherel's;  and 
though  she  had  now  learned  to  dissemble  her  gratifi 
cation,  it  still  filled  her  inwardly  with  a  delightful 
glow. 

The  Bishop  was  somewhat  late  in  appearing,  and 
she  employed  the  interval  in  meditating  on  the  plot 
of  her  next  novel,  which  was  already  partly  sketched 
out,  but  for  which  she  had  been  unable  to  find  a  sat 
isfactory  denouement.  By  a  not  uncommon  process 
of  ratiocination,  Mrs.  Fetherel's  success  had  con 
vinced  her  of  her  vocation.  She  was  sure  now  that  it 
was  her  duty  to  lay  bare  the  secret  plague-spots  of 
society,  and  she  was  resolved  that  there  should  be  no 
doubt  as  to  the  purpose  of  her  new  book.  Experience 
had  shown  her  that  where  she  had  fancied  she  was 
calling  a  spade  a  spade  she  had  in  fact  been  alluding 
in  guarded  terms  to  the  drawing-room  shovel.  She  was 
determined  not  to  repeat  the  same  mistake,  and  she 
flattered  herself  that  her  coming  novel  would  not  need 
an  episcopal  denunciation  to  insure  its  sale,  however 
likely  it  was  to  receive  this  crowning  evidence  of  suc 
cess. 

[233] 


EXPIATION 

She  had  reached  this  point  in  her  meditations  when 
the  choir  burst  into  song  and  the  ceremony  of  the  un 
veiling  began.  The  Bishop,  almost  always  felicitous 
in  his  addresses  to  the  fair  sex,  was  never  more  so  than 
when  he  was  celebrating  the  triumph  of  one  of  his 
cherished  purposes.  There  was  a  peculiar  mixture  of 
Christian  humility  and  episcopal  exultation  in  the 
manner  with  which  he  called  attention  to  the  Creator's 
promptness  in  responding  to  his  demand  for  funds, 
and  he  had  never  been  more  happily  inspired  than  in 
eulogising  the  mysterious  gift  of  the  chantry  window. 

Though  no  hint  of  the  donor's  identity  had  been 
allowed  to  escape  him,  it  was  generally  understood 
that  the  Bishop  knew  who  had  given  the  window,  and 
the  congregation  awaited  in  a  flutter  of  suspense  the 
possible  announcement  of  a  name.  None  came,  how 
ever,  though  the  Bishop  deliciously  titillated  the  curi 
osity  of  his  flock  by  circling  ever  closer  about  the  in 
teresting  secret.  He  would  not  disguise  from  them,  he 
said,  that  the  heart  which  had  divined  his  inmost  wish 
had  been  a  woman's — is  it  not  to  woman's  intuitions 
that  more  than  half  the  happiness  of  earth  is  owing  ? 
What  man  is  obliged  to  learn  by  the  laborious  process 
of  experience,  woman's  wondrous  instinct  tells  her 
at  a  glance;  and  so  it  had  been  with  this  cherished 
scheme,  this  unhoped-for  completion,  of  their  beauti 
ful  chantry.  So  much,  at  least,  he  was  allowed  to  re- 
[234] 


EXPIATION 

veal;  and  indeed,  had  he  not  done  so,  the  window  it 
self  would  have  spoken  for  him,  since  the  first  glance 
at  its  touching  subject  and  exquisite  design  would 
show  it  to  have  originated  in  a  woman's  heart.  This 
tribute  to  the  sex  was  received  with  an  audible  sigh  of 
contentment,  and  the  Bishop,  always  stimulated  by 
such  evidence  of  his  sway  over  his  'hearers,  took  up 
his  theme  with  gathering  eloquence. 

Yes — a  woman's  heart  had  planned  the  gift,  a  wom 
an's  hand  had  executed  it,  and,  might  he  add,  with 
out  too  far  withdrawing  the  veil  in  which  Christian 
beneficence  ever  loved  to  drape  its  acts — might  he 
add  that,  under  Providence,  a  book,  a  simple  book,  a 
mere  tale,  in  fact,  had  had  its  share  in  the  good  work 
for  which  they  were  assembled  to  give  thanks? 

At  this  unexpected  announcement,  a  ripple  of  ex 
citement  ran  through  the  assemblage,  and  more  than 
one  head  was  abruptly  turned  in  the  direction  of 
Mrs.  Fetherel,  who  sat  listening  in  an  agony  of  won 
der  and  confusion.  It  did  not  escape  the  observant 
novelist  at  her  side  that  she  drew  down  her  veil  to  con 
ceal  an  uncontrollable  blush,  and  this  evidence  of  dis 
may  caused  him  to  fix  an  attentive  gaze  on  her,  while 
from  her  seat  across  the  aisle  Mrs.  Gollinger  sent  a 
smile  of  unctuous  approval. 

"A  book — a  simple  book — "  the  Bishop's  voice  went 
on  above  this  flutter  of  mingled  emotions.  "What  is 
[235] 


EXPIATION 

a  book?  Only  a  few  pages  and  a  little  ink — and  yet 
one  of  the  mightiest  instruments  which  Providence  has 
devised  for  shaping  the  destinies  of  man  .  .  .  one  of 
the  most  powerful  influences  for  good  or  evil  which 
the  Creator  has  placed  in  the  hands  of  his  creat 
ures.  .  .  ." 

The  air  seemed  intolerably  close  to  Mrs.  Fetherel, 
and  she  drew  out  'her  scent-bottle,  and  then  thrust  it 
hurriedly  away,  conscious  that  she  was  still  the  centre 
of  an  unenviable  attention.  And  all  the  while  the  Bish 
op's  voice  droned  on  ... 

"And  of  all  forms  of  literature,  fiction  is  doubtless 
that  which  has  exercised  the  greatest  sway,  for  good 
or  ill,  over  the  passions  and  imagination  of  the  mass 
es.  Yes,  my  friends,  I  am  the  first  to  acknowledge  it 
— no  sermon,  however  eloquent,  no  theological  treat 
ise,  however  learned  and  convincing,  has  ever  in 
flamed  the  heart  and  imagination  like  a  novel — a  sim 
ple  novel.  Incalculable  is  the  power  exercised  over  hu 
manity  by  the  great  magicians  of  the  pen — a  power 
ever  enlarging  its  boundaries  and  increasing  its  re 
sponsibilities  as  popular  education  multiplies  the  num 
ber  of  readers  .  .  .  Yes,  it  is  the  novelist's  hand  which 
can  pour  balm  on  countless  human  sufferings,  or  in 
oculate  mankind  with  the  festering  poison  of  a  cor 
rupt  imagination.  .  .  ." 

Mrs.  Fetherel  had  turned  white,  and  her  eyes  were 
[236] 


EXPIATION 

fixed  with  a  blind  stare  of  anger  on  the  large-sleeved 
figure  in  the  centre  of  the  chancel. 

*eAnd  too  often,  alas,  it  is  the  poison  and  not  the 
balm  which  the  unscrupulous  hand  of  genius  prof 
fers  to  its  unsuspecting  readers.  But,  my  friends,  why 
should  I  continue?  None  know  better  than  an  assem 
blage  of  Christian  women,  such  as  I  am  now  address 
ing,  the  beneficent  or  baleful  influences  of  modern  fic 
tion;  and  so,  when  I  say  that  this  beautiful  chantry 
window  of  ours  owes  its  existence  in  part  to  the  ro 
mancer's  pen" — the  Bishop  paused,  and  bending  for 
ward,  seemed  to  seek  a  certain  face  among  the  counte 
nances  eagerly  addressed  to  his — "when  I  say  that 
this  pen,  which  for  personal  reasons  it  does  not  be 
come  me  to  celebrate  unduly — " 

Mrs.  Fetherel  at  this  point  half  rose,  pushing  back 
her  chair,  which  scraped  loudly  over  the  marble  floor ; 
but  Hynes  involuntarily  laid  a  warning  hand  on  her 
arm,  and  she  sank  down  with  a  confused  murmur 
about  the  heat. 

"When  I  confess  that  this  pen,  which  for  once 
at  least  has  proved  itself  so  much  mightier  than  the 
sword,  is  that  which  was  inspired  to  trace  the  simple 
narrative  of  'Through  a  Glass  Brightly' —  Mrs. 
Fetherel  looked  up  with  a  gasp  of  mingled  relief 
and  anger — "when  I  tell  you,  my  dear  friends,  that  it 
was  your  Bishop's  own  work  which  first  roused  the 
[237] 


EXPIATION 

mind  of  one  of  his  flock  to  the  crying  need  of  a  chan 
try  window,  I  think  you  will  admit  that  I  am  justi 
fied  in  celebrating  the  triumphs  of  the  pen,  even 
though  it  be  the  modest  instrument  which  your  own 
Bishop  wields." 

The  Bishop  paused  impressively,  and  a  faint  gasp 
of  surprise  and  disappointment  was  audible  through 
out  the  chantry.  Something  very  different  from  this 
conclusion  had  been  expected,  and  even  Mrs.  Gollin- 
ger's  lips  curled  with  a  slightly  ironic  smile.  But 
Archer  Hynes's  attention  was  chiefly  reserved  for 
Mrs.  Fetherel,  whose  face  had  changed  with  aston- 
,  ishing  rapidity  from  surprise  to  annoyance,  from  an- 
,noyance  to  relief,  and  then  back  again  to  something 
very  like  indignation. 

The  address  concluded,  the  actual  ceremony  of  the 
unveiling  was  about  to  take  place,  and  the  attention 
of  the  congregation  soon  reverted  to  the  chancel, 
where  the  choir  had  grouped  themselves  beneath  the 
veiled  window,  prepared  to  burst  into  a  chant  of 
praise  as  the  Bishop  drew  back  the  hanging.  The  mo 
ment  was  an  impressive  one,  and  every  eye  was  fixed 
on  the  curtain.  Even  Hynes's  gaze  strayed  to  it  for  a 
moment,  but  soon  returned  to  his  neighbour's  face; 
and  then  he  perceived  that  Mrs.  Fetherel,  alone  of  all 
the  persons  present,  was  not  looking  at  the  window. 
Her  eyes  were  fixed  in  an  indignant  stare  on  the  Bish- 
[238] 


EXPIATION 

op;  a  flush  of  anger  burned  becomingly  under  her 
veil,  and  her  hands  nervously  crumpled  the  beautiful 
ly  printed  programme  of  the  ceremony. 

Hynes  broke  into  a  smile  of  comprehension.  He 
glanced  at  the  Bishop,  and  back  at  the  Bishop's  niece ; 
then,  as  the  episcopal  hand  was  solemnly  raised  to 
draw  back  the  curtain,  he  bent  and  whispered  in  Mrs. 
Fetherel's  ear: 

"Why,  you  gave  it  yourself !  You  wonderful  woman, 
of  course  you  gave  it  yourself!" 

Mrs.  Fetherel  raised  her  eyes  to  his  with  a  start. 
Her  blush  deepened  and  her  lips  shaped  a  hasty 
"No";  but  the  denial  was  deflected  into  the  indignant 
murmur — "It  wasn't  his  silly  book  that  did  it,  any 
how  !" 


[239] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 


IT  was  the  autumn  after  I  had  the  typhoid.  I'd 
been  three  months  in  hospital,  and  when  I  came 
out  I  looked  so  weak  and  tottery  that  the  two  or 
three  ladies  I  applied  to  were  afraid  to  engage  me. 
Most  of  my  money  was  gone,  and  after  I'd  boarded  for 
two  months,  hanging  about  the  employment-agencies, 
and  answering  any  advertisement  that  looked  any  way 
respectable,  I  pretty  nearly  lost  heart,  for  fretting 
hadn't  made  me  fatter,  and  I  didn't  see  why  my  luck 
should  ever  turn.  It  did  though — or  I  thought  so  at 
the  time.  A  Mrs.  Railton,  a  friend  of  the  lady  that 
first  brought  me  out  to  the  States,  met  me  one  day  and 
stopped  to  speak  to  me :  she  was  one  that  had  always 
a  friendly  way  with  her.  She  asked  me  what  ailed 
me  to  look  so  white,  and  when  I  told  her,  "Why,  Hart 
ley,"  says  she,  "I  believe  I've  got  the  very  place  for 
you.  Come  in  to-morrow  and  we'll  talk  about  it." 

The  next  day,  when  I  called,  she  told  me  the  lady 
she'd  in  mind  was  a  niece  of  hers,  a  Mrs.  Brympton, 
a  youngish  lady,  but  something  of  an  invalid,  who 
lived  all  the  year  round  at  her  country-place  on  the 
Hudson,  owing  to  not  being  able  to  stand  the  fatigue 
of  town  life. 

[243] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

"Now,  Hartley,"  Mrs.  Railton  said,  in  that  cheery 
way  that  always  made  me  feel  things  must  be  going 
to  take  a  turn  for  the  better — "now  understand  me; 
it's  not  a  cheerful  place  I'm  sending  you  to.  The  house 
is  big  and  gloomy ;  my  niece  is  nervous,  vapourish ;  her 
husband — well,  he's  generally  away;  and  the  two 
children  are  dead.  A  year  ago  I  would  as  soon  have 
thought  of  shutting  a  rosy  active  girl  like  you  into 
a  vault;  but  you're  not  particularly  brisk  yourself 
just  now,  are  you?  and  a  quiet  place,  with  country 
air  and  wholesome  food  and  early  hours,  ought  to  be 
the  very  thing  for  you.  Don't  mistake  me,"  she  added, 
for  I  suppose  I  looked  a  trifle  downcast;  "you  may 
find  it  dull  but  you  wont  be  unhappy.  My  niece  is  an 
angel.  Her  former  maid,  who  died  last  spring,  had 
been  with  her  twenty  years  and  worshipped  the 
ground  she  walked  on.  She's  a  kind  mistress  to  all, 
and  where  the  mistress  is  kind,  as  you  know,  the  ser 
vants  are  generally  good-humoured,  so  you'll  probably 
get  on  well  enough  with  the  rest  of  the  household.  And 
you're  the  very  woman  I  want  for  my  niece:  quiet, 
well-mannered,  and  educated  above  your  station.  You 
read  aloud  well,  I  think?  That's  a  good  thing;  my 
niece  likes  to  be  read  to.  She  wants  a  maid  that  can 
be  something  of  a  companion:  her  last  was,  and  I 
can't  say  how  she  misses  her.  It's  a  lonely  life  .  .  . 
Well,  have  you  decided?" 

[24*] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

"Why,  ma'am,"  I  said,  "I'm  not  afraid  of  soli 
tude." 

"Well,  then,  go ;  my  niece  will  take  you  on  my  rec 
ommendation.  I'll  telegraph  her  at  once  and  you  can 
take  the  afternoon  train.  She  has  no  one  to  wait  on 
her  at  present,  and  I  don't  want  you  to  lodse  any 
time." 

I  was  ready  enough  to  start,  yet  something  in  me 
hung  back;  and  to  gain  time  I  asked,  "And  the  gen 
tleman,  ma'am?" 

"The  gentleman's  almost  always  away,  I  tell  you," 
said  Mrs.  Railton,  quick-like — "and  when  he's  there," 
says  she  suddenly,  "you've  only  to  keep  out  of  his 
way." 

I  took  the  afternoon  train  and  got  out  at  D 

station  at  about  four  o'clock.  A  groom  in  a  dog-cart 
was  waiting,  and  we  drove  off  at  a  smart  pace.  It  was 
a  dull  October  day,  with  rain  hanging  close  over 
head,  and  by  the  time  we  turned  into  Brympton 
Place  woods  the  daylight  was  almost  gone.  The  drive 
wound  through  the  woods  for  a  mile  or  two,  and  came 
out  on  a  gravel  court  shut  in  with  thickets  of  tall 
black-looking  shrubs.  There  were  no  lights  in  the  win 
dows,  and  the  house  did  look  a  bit  gloomy. 

I  had  asked  no  questions  of  the  groom,  for  I  never 
was  one  to  get  my  notion  of  new  masters  from  their 
other  servants:  I  prefer  to  wait  and  see  for  myself. 
[245] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

But  I  could  tell  by  the  look  of  everything  that  I  had 
got  into  the  right  kind  of  house,  and  that  things  were 
done  handsomely.  A  pleasant-faced  cook  met  me  at 
the  back  door  and  called  the  house-maid  to  show  me 
up  to  my  room.  "You'll  see  madam  later/'  she  said. 
"Mrs.  Brympton  has  a  visitor." 

I  hadn't  fancied  Mrs.  Brympton  was  a  lady  to  have 
many  visitors,  and  somehow  the  words  cheered  me. 
I  followed  the  house-maid  upstairs,  and  saw,  through 
a  door  on  the  upper  landing,  that  the  main  part  of  the 
house  seemed  well  furnished,  with  dark  panelling  and 
a  number  of  old  portraits.  Another  flight  of  stairs  led 
us  up  to  the  servants'  wing.  It  was  almost  dark  now, 
and  the  house-maid  excused  herself  for  not  having 
brought  a  light.  "But  there's  matches  in  your  room," 
she  said,  "and  if  you  go  careful  you'll  be  all  right. 
Mind  the  step  at  the  end  of  the  passage.  Your  room 
is  just  beyond." 

I  looked  ahead  as  she  spoke,  and  half-way  down 
the  passage  I  saw  a  woman  standing.  She  drew  back 
into  a  doorway  as  we  passed  and  the  house-maid 
didn't  appear  to  notice  her.  She  was  a  thin  woman 
with  a  white  face,  and  a  darkish  stuff  gown  and  apron. 
I  took  her  for  the  housekeeper  and  thought  it  odd 
that  she  didn't  speak,  but  just  gave  me  a  long  look  as 
she  went  by.  My  room  opened  into  a  square  hall  at 
the  end  of  the  passage.  Facing  my  door  was  another 
[246] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

which  stood  open:  the  house-maid  exclaimed  when 
she  saw  it: 

"There — Mrs.  Blinder's  left  that  door  open 
again!"  said  she,  closing  it. 

"Is  Mrs.  Blinder  the  housekeeper  ?" 

"There's  no  housekeeper :  Mrs.  Blinder's  the  cook." 

"And  is  that  her  room?" 

"Laws,  no,"  said  the  house-maid,  cross-like. 
"That's  nobody's  room.  It's  empty,  I  mean,  and  the 
door  hadn't  ought  to  be  open.  Mrs.  Brympton  wants 
it  kept  locked." 

She  opened  my  door  and  led  me  into  a  neat  room, 
nicely  furnished,  with  a  picture  or  two  on  the  walls; 
and  having  lit  a  candle  she  took  leave,  telling  me  that 
the  servants '-hall  tea  was  at  six,  and  that  Mrs.  Brymp 
ton  would  see  me  afterward. 

I  found  them  a  pleasant-spoken  set  in  the  servants' 
hall,  and  by  what  they  let  fall  I  gathered  that,  as 
Mrs.  Railton  had  said,  Mrs.  Brympton  was  the  kind 
est  of  ladies;  but  I  didn't  take  much  notice  of  their 
talk,  for  I  was  watching  to  see  the  pale  woman  in  the 
dark  gown  come  in.  She  didn't  show  herself,  however, 
and  I  wondered  if  she  ate  apart;  but  if  she  wasn't 
the  housekeeper,  why  should  she?  Suddenly  it  struck 
me  that  she  might  be  a  trained  nurse,  and  in  that  case 
her  meals  would  of  course  be  served  in  her  room.  If 
Mrs.  Brympton  was  an  invalid  it  was  likely  enough 
[247] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

she  had  a  nurse.  The  idea  annoyed  me,  I  own,  for 
they're  not  always  the  easiest  to  get  on  with,  and  if 
I'd  known  I  shouldn't  have  taken  the  place.  But  there 
I  was  and  there  was  no  use  pulling  a  long  face  over 
it;  and  not  being  one  to  ask  questions  I  waited  to 
see  what  would  turn  up. 

When  tea  was  over  the  house-maid  said  to  the  foot 
man:  "Has  Mr.  Ranford  gone?"  and  when  he  said 
yes,  she  told  me  to  come  up  with  her  to  Mrs.  Brymp- 
ton. 

Mrs.  Brympton  was  lying  down  in  her  bedroom. 
Her  lounge  stood  near  the  fire  and  beside  it  was  a 
shaded  lamp.  She  was  a  delicate-looking  lady,  but 
when  she  smiled  I  felt  there  was  nothing  I  wouldn't 
do  for  her.  She  spoke  very  pleasantly,  in  a  low  voice, 
asking  me  my  name  and  age  and  so  on,  and  if  I  had 
everything  I  wanted,  and  if  I  wasn't  afraid  of  feeling 
lonely  in  the  country. 

"Not  with  you  I  wouldn't  be,  madam,"  I  said,  and 
the  words  surprised  me  when  I'd  spoken  them,  for 
I'm  not  an  impulsive  person;  but  it  was  just  as  if  I'd 
thought  aloud. 

She  seemed  pleased  at  that,  and  said  she  hoped 
I'd  continue  in  the  same  mind;  then  she  gave  me  a  few 
directions  about  her  toilet,  and  said  Agnes  the  house 
maid  would  show  me  next  morning  where  things  were 
kept. 

[248] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELJ, 

"I  am  tired  to-night,  and  shall  dine  upstairs,"  she 
said.  "Agnes  will  bring  me  my  tray,  that  you  may 
have  time  to  unpack  and  settle  yourself;  and  later 
you  may  come  and  undress  me." 

"Very  well,  ma'am,"  I  said.  "You'll  ring,  I  sup 
pose?" 

I  thought  she  looked  odd. 

"No — Agnes  will  fetch  you,"  says  she  quickly,  and 
took  up  her  book  again. 

Well — that  was  certainly  strange:  a  lady's-maid 
having  to  be  fetched  by  the  house-maid  whenever  her 
lady  wanted  her !  I  wondered  if  there  were  no  bells  in 
the  house;  but  the  next  day  I  satisfied  myself  that 
there  was  one  in  every  room,  and  a  special  one  ringing 
from  my  mistress's  room  to  mine;  and  after  that  it 
did  strike  me  as  queer  that,  whenever  Mrs.  Brympton 
wanted  anything,  she  rang  for  Agnes,  who  had  to 
walk  the  whole  length  of  the  servants'  wing  to  call  me. 

But  that  wasn't  the  only  queer  thing  in  the  house. 
The  very  next  day  I  found  out  that  Mrs.  Brympton 
had  no  nurse ;  and  then  I  asked  Agnes  about  the  wom 
an  I  had  seen  in  the  passage  the  afternoon  before. 
Agnes  said  she  had  seen  no  one,  and  I  saw  that  she 
thought  I  was  dreaming.  To  be  sure,  it  was  dusk 
when  we  went  down  the  passage,  and  she  had  excused 
herself  for  not  bringing  a  light;  but  I  had  seen  the 
woman  plain  enough  to  know  her  again  if  we  should 
[249] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

meet.  I  decided  that  she  must  have  been  a  friend  of 
the  cook's,  or  of  one  of  the  other  women-servants; 
perhaps  she  had  come  down  from  town  for  a  night's 
visit,  and  the  servants  wanted  it  kept  secret.  Some 
ladies  are  very  stiff  about  having  their  servants' 
friends  in  the  house  overnight.  At  any  rate,  I  made 
up  my  mind  to  ask  no  more  questions. 

In  a  day  or  two  another  odd  thing  happened.  I 
was  chatting  one  afternoon  with  Mrs.  Blinder,  who 
was  a  friendly  disposed  woman,  and  had  been  longer 
in  the  house  than  the  other  servants,  and  she  asked 
me  if  I  was  quite  comfortable  and  had  everything  I 
needed.  I  said  I  had  no  fault  to  find  with  my  place 
or  with  my  mistress,  but  I  thought  it  odd  that  in  so 
large  a  house  there  was  no  sewing-room  for  the  lady's 
maid. 

"Why,"  says  she,  "there  is  one:  the  room  you're  in 
is  the  old  sewing-room." 

"Oh,"  said  I ;  "and  where  did  the  other  lady's  maid 
sleep?" 

At  that  she  grew  confused,  and  said  hurriedly  that 
the  servants'  rooms  had  all  been  changed  about  last 
year,  and  she  didn't  rightly  remember. 

That  struck  me  as  peculiar,  but  I  went  on  as  if  I 
hadn't  noticed:  "Well,  there's  a  vacant  room  opposite 
mine,  and  I  mean  to  ask  Mrs.  Brympton  if  I  mayn't 
use  that  as  a  sewing-room." 

[250] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

To  my  astonishment,  Mrs.  Blinder  went  white,  and 
gave  my  hand  a  kind  of  squeeze.  "Don't  do  that,  my 
dear/'  said  she,  trembling-like.  "To  tell  you  the 
truth,  that  was  Emma  Saxon's  room,  and  my  mistress 
has  kept  it  closed  ever  since  her  death." 

"And  who  was  Emma  Saxon?" 

"Mrs.  Brympton's  former  maid." 

"The  one  that  was  with  her  so  many  years?"  said 
I,  remembering  what  Mrs.  Railton  had  told  me. 

Mrs.  Blinder  nodded. 

"What  sort  of  woman  was  she?" 

"No  better  walked  the  earth,"  said  Mrs.  Blinder. 
"My  mistress  loved  her  like  a  sister." 

"But  I  mean— what  did  she  look  like?" 

Mrs.  Blinder  got  up  and  gave  me  a  kind  of  angry 
stare.  "I'm  no  great  hand  at  describing,"  she  said; 
"and  I  believe  my  pastry's  rising."  And  she  walked 
off  into  the  kitchen  and  shut  the  door  after  her. 

II 

T  HAD  been  near  a  week  at  Brympton  before  I 
•••  saw  my  master.  Word  came  that  he  was  arriving 
one  afternoon,  and  a  change  passed  over  the  whole 
household.  It  was  plain  that  nobody  loved  him  below 
stairs.  Mrs.'  Blinder  took  uncommon  care  with  the  din 
ner  that  night,  but  she  snapped  at  the  kitchen-maid  in 
[251  1 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

a  way  quite  unusual  with  her ;  and  Mr.  Wace,  the  but 
ler,  a  serious,  slow-spoken  man,  went  about  his  duties 
as  if  he'd  been  getting  ready  for  a  funeral.  He  was 
a  great  Bible-reader,  Mr.  Wace  was,  and  had  a  beau 
tiful  assortment  of  texts  at  his  command;  but  that 
day  he  used  such  dreadful  language,  that  I  was  about 
to  leave  the  table,  when  he  assured  me  it  was  all  out 
of  Isaiah;  and  I  noticed  that  whenever  the  master 
came  Mr.  Wace  took  to  the  prophets. 

About  seven,  Agnes  called  me  to  my  mistress's 
room;  and  there  I  found  Mr.  Brympton.  He  was 
standing  on  the  hearth;  a  big  fair  bull-necked  man, 
with  a  red  face  and  little  bad-tempered  blue  eyes :  the 
kind  of  man  a  young  simpleton  might  have  thought 
handsome,  and  would  have  been  like  to  pay  dear  for 
thinking  it. 

He  swung  about  when  I  came  in,  and  looked  me 
over  in  a  trice.  I  knew  what  the  look  meant,  from 
having  experienced  it  once  or  twice  in  my  former 
places.  Then  he  turned  his  back  on  me,  and  went  on 
talking  to  his  wife ;  and  I  knew  what  that  meant,  too. 
I  was  not  the  kind  of  morsel  he  was  after.  The 
typhoid  had  served  me  well  enough  in  one  way:  it 
kept  that  kind  of  gentleman  at  arm's-length. 

"This  is  my  new  maid,  Hartley,"  says  Mrs.  Brymp 
ton  in  her  kind  voice ;  and  he  nodded  and  went  on  with 
what  he  was  saying. 

[252] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

In  a  minute  or  two  he  went  off,  and  left  my  mis 
tress  to  dress  for  dinner,  and  I  noticed  as  I  waited 
on  her  that  she  was  white,  and  chill  to  the  touch. 

Mr.  Brympton  took  himself  off"  the  next  morning, 
and  the  whole  house  drew  a  long  breath  when  he 
drove  away.  As  for  my  mistress,  she  put  on  her  hat 
and  furs  (for  it  was  a  fine  winter  morning)  and  went 
out  for  a  walk  in  the  gardens,  coming  back  quite 
fresh  and  rosy,  so  that  for  a  minute,  before  her  colour 
faded,  I  could  guess  what  a  pretty  young  lady  she 
must  have  been,  and  not  so  long  ago,  either. 

She  had  met  Mr.  Ranford  in  the  grounds,  and  the 
two  came  back  together,  I  remember,  smiling  and 
talking  as  they  walked  along  the  terrace  under  my 
window.  That  was  the  first  time  I  saw  Mr.  Ranford, 
though  I  had  often  heard  his  name  mentioned  in  the 
hall.  He  was  a  neighbour,  it  appeared,  living  a  mile 
or  two  beyond  Brympton,  at  the  end  of  the  village; 
and  as  he  was  in  the  habit  of  spending  his  winters 
t  in  the  country  he  was  almost  the  only  company  my 
mistress  had  at  that  season.  He  was  a  slight  tall  gen 
tleman  of  about  thirty,  and  I  thought  him  rather  mel 
ancholy-looking  till  I  saw  his  smile,  which  had  a 
kind  of  surprise  in  it,  like  the  first  warm  day  in  spring. 
He  was  a  great  reader,  I  heard,  like  my  mistress, 
and  the  two  were  for  ever  borrowing  books  of  one  an 
other,  and  sometimes  (Mr.  Wace  told  me)  he  would 
[  253  ] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

read  aloud  to  Mrs.  Brympton  by  the  hour,  in  the  big 
dark  library  where  she  sat  in  the  winter  afternoons. 
The  servants  all  liked  him,  and  perhaps  that's  more 
of  a  compliment  than  the  masters  suspect.  He  had 
a  friendly  word  for  every  one  of  us,  and  we  were  all 
glad  to  think  that  Mrs.  Brympton  had  a  pleasant 
companionable  gentleman  like  that  to  keep  her  com 
pany  when  the  master  was  away.  Mr.  Ranf  ord  seemed 
on  excellent  terms  with  Mr.  Brympton  too;  though 
I  couldn't  but  wonder  that  two  gentlemen  so  unlike 
each  other  should  be  so  friendly.  But  then  I  knew 
how  the  real  quality  can  keep  their  feelings  to  them 
selves. 

As  for  Mr.  Brympton,  he  came  and  went,  never 
staying  more  than  a  day  or  two,  cursing  the  dulness 
and  the  solitude,  grumbling  at  everything,  and  (as 
I  soon  found  out)  drinking  a  deal  more  than  was 
good  for  him.  After  Mrs.  Brympton  left  the  table 
he  would  sit  half  the  night  over  the  old  Brympton 
port  and  madeira,  and  once,  as  I  was  leaving  my  mis 
tress's  room  rather  later  than  usual,  I  met  him  com 
ing  up  the  stairs  in  such  a  state  that  I  turned  sick 
to  think  of  what  some  ladies  have  to  endure  and  hold 
their  tongues  about. 

The  servants  said  very  little  about  their  master; 
but  from  what  they  let  drop  I  could  see  it  had  been 
an  unhappy  match  from  the  beginning.  Mr.  Brymp- 
[  254] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

ton  was  coarse,  loud  and  pleasure-loving;  my  mis 
tress  quiet,  retiring,  and  perhaps  a  trifle  cold.  Not 
that  she  was  not  always  pleasant-spoken  to  him:  I 
thought  her  wonderfully  forbearing;  but  to  a  gentle 
man  as  free  as  Mr.  Brympton  I  daresay  she  seemed  a 
little  offish. 

Well,  things  went  on  quietly  for  several  weeks.  My 
mistress  was  kind,  my  duties  were  light,  and  I  got 
on  well  with  the  other  servants.  In  short,  I  had  nothing 
to  complain  of;  yet  there  was  always  a  weight  on  me. 
I  can't  say  why  it  was  so,  but  I  know  it  was  not  the 
loneliness  that  I  felt.  I  soon  got  used  to  that;  and  be 
ing  still  languid  from  the  fever,  I  was  thankful  for 
the  quiet  and  the  good  country  air.  Nevertheless,  I 
was  never  quite  easy  in  my  mind.  My  mistress,  know 
ing  I  had  been  ill,  insisted  that  I  should  take  my 
walk  regular,  and  often  invented  errands  for  me: — a 
yard  of  ribbon  to  be  fetched  from  the  village,  a  letter 
posted,  or  a  book  returned  to  Mr.  Ranford.  As  soon 
^as  I  was  out  of  doors  my  spirits  rose,  and  I  looked 
forward  to  my  walks  through  the  bare  moist-smelling 
woods;  but  the  moment  I  caught  sight  of  the  house 
again  my  'heart  dropped  down  like  a  stone  in  a  well. 
It  was  not  a  gloomy  house  exactly,  yet  I  never  en 
tered  it  but  a  feeling  of  gloom  came  over  me. 

Mrs.  Brympton  seldom  went  out  in  winter;  only 
on  the  finest  days  did  she  walk  an  hour  at  noon  on  the 
[255] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

south  terrace.    Excepting   Mr.   Ranford,  we  had  no 

visitors  but  the  doctor,  who  drove  over  from  D 

about  once  a  week.  He  sent  for  me  once  or  twice  to 
give  me  some  trifling  direction  about  my  mistress, 
and  though  he  never  told  me  what  her  illness  was,  1 
thought,  from  a  waxy  look  she  had  now  and  then  of  a 
morning,  that  it  might  be  the  heart  that  ailed  her. 
The  season  was  soft  and  unwholesome,  and  in  Jan 
uary  we  had  a  long  spell  of  rain.  That  was  a  sore; 
trial  to  me,  I  own,  for  I  couldn't  go  out,  and  sitting 
over  my  sewing  all  day,  listening  to  the  drip,  drip 
of  the  eaves,  I  grew  so  nervous  that  the  least  sound 
made  me  jump.  Somehow,  the  thought  of  that  locked 
room  across  the  passage  began  to  weigh  on  me.  Once 
or  twice,  in  the  long  rainy  nights,  I  fancied  I  heard 
noises  there;  but  that  was  nonsense,  of  course,  and 
the  daylight  drove  such  notions  out  of  my  head.  Well, 
one  morning  Mrs.  Brympton  gave  me  quite  a  start  of 
pleasure  by  telling  me  she  wished  me  to  go  to  town 
for  some  shopping.  I  hadn't  known  till  then  how  low 
my  spirits  had  fallen.  I  set  off  in  high  glee,  and  my 
first  sight  of  the  crowded  streets  and  the  cheerful- 
looking  shops  quite  took  me  out  of  myself.  Toward 
afternoon,  however,  the  noise  and  confusion  began 
to  tire  me,  and  I  was  actually  looking  forward  to  the 
quiet  of  Brympton,  and  thinking  how  I  should  enjoy 
the  drive  home  through  the  dark  woods,  when  I  ran 
[256] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

across  an  old  acquaintance,  a  maid  I  had  once  been  in 
service  with.  We  had  lost  sight  of  each  other  for  a 
number  of  years,  and  I  had  to  stop  and  tell  her  what 
had  happened  to  me  in  the  interval.  When  I  men 
tioned  where  I  was  living  she  rolled  up  her  eyes  and 
pulled  a  long  face. 

"What!  The  Mrs.  Brympton  that  lives  all  the  year 
at  her  place  on  the  Hudson  ?  My  dear,  you  won't  stay 
there  three  months." 

"Oh,  but  I  don't  mind  the  country,"  says  I,  offend 
ed  somehow  at  her  tone.  "Since  the  fever  I'm  glad 
to  be  quiet." 

She  shook  her  head.  "It's  not  the  country  I'm  think 
ing  of.  All  I  know  is  she's  had  four  maids  in  the  last 
six  months,  and  the  last  one,  who  was  a  friend  of  mine, 
told  me  nobody  could  stay  in  the  house." 

"Did  she  say  why?"  I  asked. 

"No — she  wouldn't  give  me  her  reason.  But  she 
says  to  me,  Mrs.  Ansey,  she  says,  if  ever  a  young  wom 
an  as  you  know  of  thinks  of  going  there,  you  tell  her 
it's  not  worth  while  to  unpack  her  boxes." 

"Is  she  young  and  handsome?"  said  I,  thinking  of 
Mr.  Brympton. 

"Not  her !  She's  the  kind  that  mothers  engage  when 
they've  gay  young  gentlemen  at  college." 

Well,  though  I  knew  the  woman  was  an  idle  gossip, 
the  words  stuck  in  my  head,  and  my  heart  sank  lower 
[257] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

than  ever  as  I  drove  up  to  Brympton  in  the  dusk. 
There  was  something  about  the  house — I  was  sure  of 
it  now  .  .  . 

When  I  went  in  to  tea  I  heard  that  Mr.  Brympton 
had  arrived,  and  I  saw  at  a  glance  that  there  had 
been  a  disturbance  of  some  kind.  Mrs.  Blinder's  hand 
shook  so  that  she  could  hardly  pour  the  tea,  and  Mr. 
Wace  quoted  the  most  dreadful  texts  full  of  brim 
stone.  Nobody  said  a  word  to  me  then,  but  when  I 
went  up  to  my  room  Mrs.  Blinder  followed  me. 

"Oh,  my  dear,"  says  she,  taking  my  hand,  "I'm 
so  glad  and  thankful  you've  come  back  to  us !" 

That  struck  me,  as  you  may  imagine.  "Why,"  said 
I,  "did  you  think  I  was  leaving  for  good?" 

"No,  no,  to  be  sure,"  said  she,  a  little  confused, 
"but  I  can't  a-bear  to  have  madam  left  alone  for  a 
day  even."  She  pressed  my  hand  hard,  and,  "Oh, 
Miss  Hartley,"  says  she,  "be  good  to  your  mistress, 
as  you're  a  Christian  woman."  And  with  that  she  hur 
ried  away,  and  left  me  staring. 

A  moment  later  Agnes  called  me  to  Mrs.  Brymp 
ton.  Hearing  Mr.  Brympton's  voice  in  her  room,  I 
went  round  by  the  dressing-room,  thinking  I  would 
lay  out  her  dinner-gown  before  going  in.  The  dress 
ing-room  is  a  large  room  with  a  window  over  the  por 
tico  that  looks  toward  the  gardens.  Mr.  Brympton's 
apartments  are  beyond.  When  I  went  in,  the  door  into 
[258] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

the  bedroom  was  ajar,  and  I  heard  Mr.  Brympton 
saying  angrily: — "One  would  suppose  he  was  the 
only  person  fit  for  you  to  talk  to." 

"I  don't  have  many  visitors  in  winter,"  Mrs. 
Brympton  answered  quietly. 

"You  have  me!"  he  flung  at  her,  sneeringly. 

"You  are  here  so  seldom,"  said  she. 

"Well— whose  fault  is  that?  You  make  the  place 
about  as  lively  as  the  family  vault — 

With  that  I  rattled  the  toilet-things,  to  give  my 
mistress  warning,  and  she  rose  and  called  me  in. 

The  two  dined  alone,  as  usual,  and  I  knew  by  Mr. 
Wace's  manner  at  supper  that  things  must  be  going 
badly.  He  quoted  the  prophets  something  terrible, 
and  worked  011  the  kitchen-maid  so  that  she  declared 
she  wouldn't  go  down  alone  to  put  the  cold  meat  in 
the  ice-box.  I  felt  nervous  myself,  and  after  I  had 
put  my  mistress  to  bed  I  was  half -tempted  to  go 
down  again  and  persuade  Mrs.  Blinder  to  sit  up 
awhile  over  a  game  of  cards.  But  I  heard  her  door 
closing  for  the  night  and  so  I  went  on  to  my  own  room. 
The  rain  had  begun  again,  and  the  drip,  drip,  drip 
seemed  to  be  dropping  into  my  brain.  I  lay  awake 
listening  to  it,  and  turning  over  what  my  friend  in 
town  had  said.  What  puzzled  me  was  that  it  was  al 
ways  the  maids  who  left  .  . . 

After  a  while  I  slept;  but  suddenly  a  loud  noise 
[259] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

wakened  me.  My  bell  had  rung.  I  sat  up,  terrified  by 
the  unusual  sound,  which  seemed  to  go  on  jangling 
through  the  darkness.  My  hands  shook  so  that  I 
couldn't  find  the  matches.  At  length  I  struck  a  light 
and  jumped  out  of  bed.  I  began  to  think  I  must  have 
been  dreaming;  but  I  looked  at  the  bell  against  the 
wall,  and  there  was  the  little  hammer  still  quivering. 

I  was  just  beginning  to  huddle  on  my  clothes  when 
I  heard  another  sound.  This  time  it  was  the  door  of 
the  locked  room  opposite  mine  softly  opening  and 
closing.  I  heard  the  sound  distinctly,  and  it  fright 
ened  me  so  that  I  stood  stock  still.  Then  I  heard  a 
footstep  hurrying  down  the  passage  toward  the  main 
house.  The  floor  being  carpeted,  the  sound  was  very 
faint,  but  I  was  quite  sure  it  was  a  woman's  step.  I 
turned  cold  with  the  thought  of  it,  and  for  a  minute 
or  two  I  dursn't  breathe  or  move.  Then  I  came  to  my 
senses. 

"Alice  Hartley,"  says  I  to  myself,  "someone  left 
that  room  just  now  and  ran  down  the  passage  ahead 
of  you.  The  idea  isn't  pleasant,  but  you  may  as  well 
face  it.  Your  mistress  has  rung  for  you,  and  to  answer 
her  bell  you've  got  to  go  the  way  that  other  woman 
has  gone." 

Well — I  did  it.  I  never  walked  faster  in  my  life, 
yet  I  thought  I  should  never  get  to  the  end  of  the 
passage  or  reach  Mrs.  Brympton's  room.  On  the  way 
[260] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

I  heard  nothing  and  saw  nothing:  all  was  dark  and 
quiet  as  the  grave.  When  I  reached  my  mistress's 
door  the  silence  was  so  deep  that  I  began  to  think  I 
must  be  dreaming,  and  was  half-minded  to  turn  back. 
Then  a  panic  seized  me,  and  I  knocked. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  I  knocked  again,  loudly. 
To  my  astonishment  the  door  was  opened  by  Mr. 
Brympton.  He  started  back  when  he  saw  me,  and  in 
the  light  of  my  candle  his  face  looked  red  and  savage. 

"You?"  he  said,  in  a  queer  voice.  "How  many  of 
you  are  there,  in  God's  name?" 

At  that  I  felt  the  ground  give  under  me;  but  I 
said  to  myself  that  he  had  been  drinking,  and  an 
swered  as  steadily  as  I  could:  "May  I  go  in,  sir?  Mrs. 
Brympton  has  rung  for  me." 

"You  may  all  go  in,  for  what  I  care,"  says  he,  and, 
pushing  by  me,  walked  down  the  hall  to  his  own  bed 
room.  I  looked  after  him  as  he  went,  and  to  my  sur 
prise  I  saw  that  he  walked  as  straight  as  a  sober  man. 

I  found  my  mistress  lying  very  weak  and  still,  but 
she  forced  a  smile  when  she  saw  me,  and  signed  to 
me  to  pour  out  some  drops  for  her.  After  that  she  lay 
without  speaking,  her  breath  coming  quick,  and  her 
eyes  closed.  Suddenly  she  groped  out  with  her  hand, 
and  "Emma"  says  she,  faintly. 

"It's  Hartley,  madam,"  I  said.  "Do  you  want  any 
thing?" 

[261] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

She  opened  her  eyes  wide  and  gave  me  a  startled 
look. 

"I  was  dreaming,"  she  said.  "You  may  go,  now, 
Hartley,  and  thank  you  kindly.  I'm  quite  well  again, 
you  see."  And  she  turned  her  face  away  from  me. 

Ill 

T  1 1  HERE  was  no  more  sleep  for  me  that  night,  and 
-*•  I  was  thankful  when  daylight  came. 

Soon  afterward,  Agnes  called  me  to  Mrs.  Brymp- 
ton.  I  was  afraid  she  was  ill  again,  for  she  seldom 
sent  for  me  before  nine,  but  I  found  her  sitting  up  in 
bed,  pale  and  drawn-looking,  but  quite  herself. 

"Hartley,"  says  she  quickly,  "will  you  put  on  your 
things  at  once  and  go  down  to  the  village  for  me?  I 
want  this  prescription  made  up — "  here  she  hesitated 
a  minute  and  blushed — "and  I  should  like  you  to 
be  back  again  before  Mr.  Brympton  is  up." 

"Certainly,  madam,"  I  said. 

"And — stay  a  moment — "  she  called  me  back  as 
if  an  idea  had  just  struck  her — "while  you're  waiting 
for  the  mixture,  you'll  have  time  to  go  on  to  Mr.  Ran- 
ford's  with  this  note." 

It  was  a  two-mile  walk  to  the  village,  and  on  my 

way  I  had  time  to  turn  things  over  in  my  mind.  It 

struck  me  as  peculiar  that  my  mistress  should  wish 

the  prescription   made  up  without   Mr.   Brympton's 

[262] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

knowledge;  and,  putting  this  together  with  the  scene 
of  the  night  before,  and  with  much  else  that  I  had 
noticed  and  suspected,  I  began  to  wonder  if  the  poor 
lady  was  weary  of  her  life,  and  had  come  to  the  mad 
resolve  of  ending  it.  The  idea  took  such  hold  on  me 
that  I  reached  the  village  on  a  run,  and  dropped 
breathless  into  a  chair  before  the  chemist's  counter. 
The  good  man,  who  was  just  taking  down  his  shutters, 
stared  at  me  so  hard  that  it  brought  me  to  myself. 

"Mr.  Limmel,"  I  says,  trying  to  speak  indifferent, 
"will  you  run  your  eye  over  this,  and  tell  me  if  it's 
quite  right?" 

He  put  on  his  spectacles  and  studied  the  prescrip 
tion. 

"Why,  it's  one  of  Dr.  Walton's,"  says  he.  "What 
should  be  wrong  with  it?" 

"Well — is  it  dangerous  to  take?" 

"Dangerous — how  do  you  mean?" 

I  could  have  shaken  the  man  for  his  stupidity. 
,       "I  mean — if  a  person  was  to  take  too  much  of  it 
— by  mistake  of  course — "  says  I,  my  heart  in  my 
throat. 

"Lord  bless  you,  no.  It's  only  lime-water.  You  might 
feed  it  to  a  baby  by  the  bottleful." 

I  gave  a  great  sigh  of  relief  and  hurried  on  to  Mr. 
Ranford's.   But  on  the  way  another  thought  struck 
me.  If  there  was  nothing  to  conceal  about  my  visit  to 
[263] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

the  chemist's,  was  it  my  other  errand  that  Mrs. 
Brympton  wished  me  to  keep  private?  Somehow,  that 
thought  frightened  me  worse  than  the  other.  Yet  the 
two  gentlemen  seemed  fast  friends,  and  I  would  have 
staked  my  head  on  my  mistress's  goodness.  I  felt 
ashamed  of  my  suspicions,  and  concluded  that  I  was 
still  disturbed  by  the  strange  events  of  the  night.  I 
left  the  note  at  Mr.  Ranford's,  and  hurrying  back 
to  Brympton,  slipped  in  by  a  side  door  without  being 
seen,  as  I  thought. 

An  hour  later,  however,  as  I  was  carrying  in  my 
mistress's  breakfast,  I  was  stopped  in  the  hall  by  Mr. 
Brympton. 

"What  were  you  doing  out  so  early?"  he  says,  look 
ing  hard  at  me. 

"Early — me,  sir?"  I  said,  in  a  tremble. 

"Come,  come,"  he  says,  an  angry  red  spot  coming 
out  on  his  forehead,  "didn't  I  see  you  scuttling  home 
through  the  shrubbery  an  hour  or  more  ago  ?" 

I'm  a  truthful  woman  by  nature,  but  at  that  a  lie 
popped  out  ready-made.  "No,  sir,  you  didn't,"  said  I 
and  looked  straight  back  at  him. 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  gave  a  sullen  laugh. 
"I  suppose  you  think  I  was  drunk  last  night?"  he 
asked  suddenly. 

"No,  sir,  I  don't,"  I  answered,  this  time  truthfully 
enough. 

[264] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

He  turned  away  with  another  shrug.  "A  pretty  no 
tion  my  servants  have  of  me !"  I  heard  him  mutter  as 
he  walked  off. 

Not  till  I  had  settled  down  to  my  afternoon's  sew 
ing  did  I  realise  how  the  events  of  the  night  had 
shaken  me.  I  couldn't  pass  that  locked  door  without 
a  shiver.  I  knew  I  had  heard  someone  come  out  of 
it,  and  walk  down  the  passage  ahead  of  me.  I  thought 
of  speaking  to  Mrs.  Blinder  or  to  Mr.  Wace,  the  only 
two  in  the  house  who  appeared  to  have  an  inkling  of 
what  was  going  on,  but  I  had  a  feeling  that  if  I  ques 
tioned  them  they  would  deny  everything,  and  that  I 
might  learn  more  by  holding  my  tongue  and  keeping 
my  eyes  open.  The  idea  of  spending  another  night 
opposite  the  locked  room  sickened  me,  and  once  I  was 
seized  with  the  notion  of  packing  my  trunk  and  tak 
ing  the  first  train  to  town ;  but  it  wasn't  in  me  to  throw 
over  a  kind  mistress  in  that  manner,  and  I  tried  to  go 
on  with  my  sewing  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  I 
j,  hadn't  worked  ten  minutes  before  the  sewing  machine 
broke  down.  It  was  one  I  had  found  in  the  house, 
a  good  machine  but  a  trifle  out  of  order:  Mrs.  Blin 
der  said  it  had  never  been  used  since  Emma  Sax 
on's  death.  I  stopped  to  see  what  was  wrong,  and  as 
I  was  working  at  the  machine  a  drawer  which  I  had 
never  been  able  to  open  slid  forward  and  a  photo 
graph  fell  out.  I  picked  it  up  and  sat  looking  at  it  in 
[265] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

a  maze.  It  was  a  woman's  likeness,  and  I  knew  I  had 
seen  the  face  somewhere — the  eyes  had  an  asking 
look  that  I  had  felt  on  me  before.  And  suddenly  I 
remembered  the  pale  woman  in  the  passage. 

I  stood  up,  cold  all  over,  and  ran  out  of  the  room. 
My  heart  seemed  to  be  thumping  in  the  top  of  my 
head,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  should  never  get  away  from 
the  look  in  those  eyes.  I  went  straight  to  Mrs.  Blin 
der.  She  was  taking  her  afternoon  nap,  and  sat  up 
with  a  jump  when  I  came  in. 

"Mrs.  Blinder/'  said  I,  "who  is  that?"  And  I  held 
out  the  photograph. 

She  rubbed  her  eyes  and  stared. 

"Why,  Emma  Saxon,"  says  she.  "Where  did  you 
find  it?" 

I  looked  hard  at  her  for  a  minute.  "Mrs.  Blinder," 
I  said,  "I've  seen  that  face  before." 

Mrs.  Blinder  got  up  and  walked  over  to  the  look 
ing-glass.  "Dear  me !  I  must  have  been  asleep,"  she 
says.  "My  front  is  all  over  one  ear.  And  now  do  run 
along,  Miss  Hartley,  dear,  for  I  hear  the  clock  strik 
ing  four,  and  I  must  go  down  this  very  minute  and 
put  on  the  Virginia  ham  for  Mr.  Brympton's  dinner." 


[266] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

IV 

O  all  appearances,  things  went  on  as  usual  for 
a  week  or  two.  The  only  difference  was  that  Mr. 
Brympton  stayed  on,  instead  of  going  off  as  he  usual 
ly  did,  and  that  Mr.  Ranford  never  showed  himself. 
I  heard  Mr.  Brympton  remark  on  this  one  afternoon 
when  he  was  sitting  in  my  mistress's  room  before 
dinner : 

"Where's  Ranford?"  says  he.  "He  hasn't  been 
near  the  house  for  a  week.  Does  he  keep  away  because 
I'm  here?" 

Mrs.  Brympton  spoke  so  low  that  I  couldn't  catch 
her  answer. 

"Well,"  he  went  on,  "two's  company  and  three's 
trumpery;  I'm  sorry  to  be  in  Ranford's  way,  and  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  take  myself  off  again  in  a  day 
or  two  and  give  him  a  show."  And  he  laughed  at  his 
own  joke. 

The  very  next  day,  as  it  happened,  Mr.  Ranford 
called.  The  footman  said  the  three  were  very  merry 
over  their  tea  in  the  library,  and  Mr.  Brympton 
strolled  down  to  the  gate  with  Mr.  Ranford  when  he 
left. 

I  have  said  that  things  went  on  as  usual;  and  so 
they  did  with  the  rest  of  the  household;  but  as  for 
myself,  I  had  never  been  the  same  since  the  night  my 
[267] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

bell  had  rung.  Night  after  night  I  used  to  lie  awake, 
listening  for  it  to  ring  again,  and  for  the  door  of  the 
locked  room  to  open  stealthily.  But  the  bell  never 
rang,  and  I  heard  no  sound  across  the  passage.  At  last 
the  silence  began  to  be  more  dreadful  to  me  than  the 
most  mysterious  sounds.  I  felt  that  someone  was 
cowering  there,  behind  the  locked  door,  watching  and 
listening  as  I  watched  and  listened,  and  I  could  al 
most  have  cried  out,  "Whoever  you  are,  come  out  and 
let  me  see  you  face  to  face,  but  don't  lurk  there  and 
spy  on  me  in  the  darkness !" 

Feeling  as  I  did,  you  may  wonder  I  didn't  give 
warning.  Once  I  very  nearly  did  so ;  but  at  the  last  mo 
ment  something  held  me  back.  Whether  it  was  com 
passion  for  my  mistress,  who  had  grown  more  and 
more  dependent  on  me,  or  unwillingness  to  try  a  new 
place,  or  some  other  feeling  that  I  couldn't  put  a 
name  to,  I  lingered  on  as  if  spell-bound,  though 
every  night  was  dreadful  to  me,  and  the  days  but 
little  better. 

For  one  thing,  I  didn't  like  Mrs.  Brympton's 
looks.  She  had  never  been  the  same  since  that  night, 
no  more  than  I  had.  I  thought  she  would  brighten 
up  after  Mr.  Brympton  left,  but  though  she  seemed 
easier  in  her  mind,  her  spirits  didn't  revive,  nor  her 
strength  either.  She  had  grown  attached  to  me,  and 
seemed  to  like  to  have  me  about;  and  Agnes  told  me 
[268] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

one  day  that,  since  Emma  Saxon's  death,  I  was  the 
only  maid  her  mistress  had  taken  to.  This  gave  me  a 
warm  feeling  for  the  poor  lady,  though  after  all  there 
was  little  I  could  do  to  help  her. 

After  Mr.  Brympton's  departure,  Mr.  Ranford 
took  to  coming  again,  though  less  often  than  formerly. 
I  met  him  once  or  twice  in  the  grounds,  or  in  the  vil 
lage,  and  I  couldn't  but  think  there  was  a  change  in 
him  too ;  but  I  set  it  down  to  my  disordered  fancy. 

The  weeks  passed,  and  Mr.  Brympton  had  now 
been  a  month  absent.  We  heard  he  was  cruising  with 
a  friend  in  the  West  Indies,  and  Mr.  Wace  said  that 
was  a  long  way  off,  but  though  you  had  the  wings  of 
a  dove  and  went  to  the  uttermost  parts  of  the  earth, 
you  couldn't  get  away  from  the  Almighty.  Agnes  said 
that  as  long  as  he  stayed  away  from  Brympton  the 
Almighty  might  have  him  and  welcome;  and  this 
raised  a  laugh,  though  Mrs.  Blinder  tried  to  look 
shocked,  and  Mr.  Wace  said  the  bears  would  eat  us. 
*  We  were  all  glad  to  hear  that  the  West  Indies  were 
a  long  way  off,  and  I  remember  that,  in  spite  of  Mr. 
Wace's  solemn  looks,  we  had  a  very  merry  dinner  that 
day  in  the  hall.  I  don't  know  if  it  was  because  of  my 
being  in  better  spirits,  but  I  fancied  Mrs.  Brympton 
looked  better  too,  and  seemed  more  cheerful  in  her 
manner.  She  had  been  for  a  walk  in  the  morning,  and 
after  luncheon  she  lay  down  in  her  room,  and  I  read 
[269] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

aloud  to  her.  When  she  dismissed  me  I  went  to  my 
own  room  feeling  quite  bright  and  happy,  and  for  the; 
first  time  in  weeks  walked  past  the  locked  door  with 
out  thinking  of  it.  As  I  sat  down  to  my  work  I  looked 
out  and  saw  a  few  snow-flakes  falling.  The  sight  was 
pleasanter  than  the  eternal  rain,  and  I  pictured  to 
myself  how  pretty  the  bare  gardens  would  look  in 
their  white  mantle.  It  seemed  to  me  as  if  the  snow 
would  cover  up  all  the  dreariness,  indoors  as  well  as 
out. 

The  fancy  had  hardly  crossed  my  mind  when  I 
heard  a  step  at  my  side.  I  looked  up,  thinking  it  was 
Agnes. 

"Well,  Agnes — "  said  I,  and  the  words  froze  on 
my  tongue;  for  there,  in  the  door,  stood  Emma  Saxon, 

I  don't  know  how  long  she  stood  there.  I  only  know 
I  couldn't  stir  or  take  my  eyes  from  her.  Afterward 
I  was  terribly  frightened,  but  at  the  time  it  wasn't 
fear  I  felt,  but  something  deeper  and  quieter.  She 
looked  at  me  long  and  long,  and  her  face  was  just  one 
dumb  prayer  to  me — but  how  in  the  world  was  I  to 
help  her  ?  Suddenly  she  turned,  and  I  heard  her  walk 
down  the  passage.  This  time  I  wasn't  afraid  to  follow 
—I  felt  that  I  must  know  what  she  wanted.  I  sprang 
up  and  ran  out.  She  was  at  the  other  end  of  tne  pas 
sage,  and  I  expected  her  to  take  the  turn  toward  my 
mistress's  room;  but  instead  of  that  she  pushed  open 
[270] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

the  door  that  led  to  the  backstairs.  I  followed  her 
down  the  stairs,  and  across  the  passageway  to  the  back 
door.  The  kitchen  and  hall  were  empty  at  that  hour, 
the  servants  being  off  duty,  except  for  the  footman, 
who  was  in  the  pantry.  At  the  door  she  stood  still  a 
moment,  with  another  look  at  me ;  then  she  turned  the 
handle,  and  stepped  out.  For  a  minute  I  hesitated. 
Where  was  she  leading  me  to?  The  door  had  closed 
softly  after  her,  and  I  opened  it  and  looked  out,  half- 
expecting  to  find  that  she  had  disappeared.  But  I 
saw  her  a  few  yards  off  hurrying  across  the  court- 
,  yard  to  the  path  through  the  woods.  Her  figure 
looked  black  and  lonely  in  the  snow,  and  for  a  second 
my  heart  failed  me  and  I  thought  of  turning  back. 
But  all  the  while  she  was  drawing  me  after  her;  and 
catching  up  an  old  shawl  of  Mrs.  Blinder's  I  ran  out 
into  the  open. 

Emma  Saxon  was  in  the  wood-path  now.  She 
walked  on  steadily,  and  I  followed  at  the  same  pace, 
J;ill  we  passed  out  of  the  gates  and  reached  the  high 
road.  Then  she  struck  across  the  open  fields  to  the  vil- 
lege.  By  this  time  the  ground  was  white,  and  as  she 
climbed  the  slope  of  a  bare  hill  ahead  of  me  I  noticed 
that  she  left  no  foot-prints  behind  her.  At  sight  of  that 
my  heart  shrivelled  up  within  me,  and  my  knees  were 
water.  Somehow,  it  was  worse  here  than  indoors.  She 
made  the  whole  countryside  seem  lonely  as  the  grave, 
[271] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

with  none  but  us  two  in  it,  and  no  help  in  the  wide 
world. 

Once  I  tried  to  go  back;  but  she  turned  and  looked 
at  me,  and  it  was  as  if  she  had  dragged  me  with  ropes. 
After  that  I  followed  her  like  a  dog.  We  came  to  the 
village  and  she  led  me  through  it,  past  the  church 
and  the  blacksmith's  shop,  and  down  the  lane  to  Mr. 
Ranford's.  Mr.  Ranford's  house  stands  close  to  the 
road:  a  plain  old-fashioned  building,  with  a  flagged 
path  leading  to  the  door  between  box-borders.  The 
lane  was  deserted,  and  as  I  turned  into  it  I  saw  Emma 
Saxon  pause  under  the  old  elm  by  the  gate.  And  now 
another  fear  came  over  me.  I  saw  that  we  had  reached 
the  end  of  our  journey,  and  that  it  was  my  turn  to 
act.  All  the  way  from  Brympton  I  had  been  asking 
myself  what  she  wanted  of  me,  but  I  had  followed  in 
a  trance,  as  it  were,  and  not  till  I  saw  her  stop  at  Mr. 
Ranford's  gate  did  my  brain  begin  to  clear  itself.  I 
stood  a  little  way  off  in  the  snow,  my  heart  beating 
fit  to  strangle  me,  and  my  feet  frozen  to  the  ground ; 
and  she  stood  under  the  elm  and  watched  me. 

I  knew  well  enough  that  she  hadn't  led  me  there  for 
nothing.  I  felt  there  was  something  I  ought  to  say  or 
do — but  how  was  I  to  guess  what  it  was  ?  I  had  never 
thought  harm  of  my  mistress  and  Mr.  Ranford,  but 
I  was  sure  now  that,  from  one  cause  or  another,  some 
dreadful  thing  hung  over  them.  She  knew  what  it  was ; 
[272] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

she  would  tell  me  if  she  could;  perhaps  she  would 
answer  if  I  questioned  her. 

It  turned  me  faint  to  think  of  speaking  to  her ;  but 
I  plucked  up  heart  and  dragged  myself  across  the 
few  yards  between  us.  As  I  did  so,  I  heard  the  house- 
door  open  and  saw  Mr.  Ranford  approaching.  He 
looked  handsome  and  cheerful,  as  my  mistress  had 
looked  that  morning,  and  at  sight  of  him  the  blood 
began  to  flow  again  in  my  veins. 

"Why,  Hartley/'  said  he,  "what's  the  matter?  I 
saw  you  coming  down  the  lane  just  now,  and  came  out 
to  see  if  you  had  taken  root  in  the  snow."  He  stopped 
and  stared  at  me.  "What  are  you  looking  at  ?"  he  says. 

I  turned  toward  the  elm  as  he  spoke,  and  his  eyes 
followed  me;  but  there  was  no  one  there.  The  lane 
was  empty  as  far  as  the  eye  could  reach. 

A  sense  of  helplessness  came  over  me.  She  was  gone, 
and  I  had  not  been  able  to  guess  what  she  wanted. 
Her  last  look  had  pierced  me  to  the  marrow;  and  yet 
'  it  had  not  told  me !  All  at  once,  I  felt  more  desolate 
than  when  she  had  stood  there  watching  me.  It  seemed 
as  if  she  had  left  me  all  alone  to  carry  the  weight 
of  the  secret  I  couldn't  guess.  The  snow  went  round 
me  in  great  circles,  and  the  ground  fell  away  from 
me  .  .  . 

A  drop  of  brandy  and  the  warmth  of  Mr.  Ran- 
f ord's  fire  soon  brought  me  to,  and  I  insisted  on  being 
[273] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

driven  back  at  once  to  Brympton.  It  was  nearly  dark, 
and  I  was  afraid  my  mistress  might  be  wanting  me. 
I  explained  to  Mr.  Ranford  that  I  had  been  out  for 
a  walk  and  had  been  taken  with  a  fit  of  giddiness  as 
I  passed  his  gate.  This  was  true  enough;  yet  I  never 
felt  more  like  a  liar  than  when  I  said  it. 

When  I  dressed  Mrs.  Brympton  for  dinner  she  re 
marked  on  my  pale  looks  and  asked  what  ailed  me. 
I  told  her  I  'had  a  headache,  and  she  said  she  would 
not  require  me  again  that  evening,  and  advised  me  to 
go  to  bed. 

It  was  a  fact  that  I  could  scarcely  keep  on  my  feet ; 
yet  I  had  no  fancy  to  spend  a  solitary  evening  in  my 
room.  I  sat  downstairs  in  the  hall  as  long  as  I  could 
hold  my  head  up;  but  by  nine  I  crept  upstairs,  too 
weary  to  care  what  happened  if  I  could  but  get  my 
head  on  a  pillow.  The  rest  of  the  household  went  to 
bed  soon  afterward;  they  kept  early  hours  when  the 
master  was  away,  and  before  ten  I  heard  Mrs.  Blin- 
der's  door  close,  and  Mr.  Wace's  soon  after. 

It  was  a  very  still  night,  earth  and  air  all  muffled 
in  snow.  Once  in  bed  I  felt  easier,  and  lay  quiet, 
listening  to  the  strange  noises  that  come  out  in  a  house 
after  dark.  Once  I  thought  I  heard  a  door  open  and 
close  again  below:  it  might  have  been  the  glass  door 
that  led  to  the  gardens.  I  got  up  and  peered  out  of 
the  window;  but  it  was  in  the  dark  of  the  moon,  and 
[274] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

nothing  visible   outside  but  the   streaking   of   snow 
against  the  panes. 

I  went  back  to  bed  and  must  have  dozed,  for  I 
jumped  awake  to  the  furious  ringing  of  my  bell.  Be 
fore  my  head  was  clear  I  had  sprung  out  of  bed,  and 
was  dragging  on  my  clothes.  It  is  going  to  happen 
now,  I  heard  myself  saying ;  but  what  I  meant  I  had 
no  notion.  My  hands  seemed  to  be  covered  with  glue 
—I  thought  I  should  never  get  into  my  clothes.  At  last 
I  opened  my  door  and  peered  down  the  passage.  As 
far  as  my  candle-flame  carried,  I  could  see  nothing 
unusual  ahead  of  me.  I  hurried  on,  breathless;  but  as 
I  pushed  open  the  baize  door  leading  to  the  main  hall 
my  heart  stood  still,  for  there  at  the  head  of  the  stairs 
was  Emma  Saxon,  peering  dreadfully  down  into  the 
darkness. 

For  a  second  I  couldn't  stir;  but  my  hand  slipped 
from  the  door,  and  as  it  swung  shut  the  figure  van 
ished.  At  the  same  instant  there  came  another  sound 
from  below  stairs — a  stealthy  mysterious  sound,  as  of 
a  latch-key  turning  in  the  house-door.  I  ran  to  Mrs. 
Brympton's  room  and  knocked. 

There  was  no  answer,  and  I  knocked  again.  This 
time  I  heard  someone  moving  in  the  room;  the  bolt 
slipped  back  and  my  mistress  stood  before  me.  To  my 
surprise  I  saw  that  she  had  not  undressed  for  the 
night.  She  gave  me  a  startled  look. 
[275] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

"What  is  this,  Hartley?"  she  says  in  a  whis 
per.  "Are  you  ill?  What  are  you  doing  here  at  this 
hour?" 

"I  am  not  ill,  madam;  but  my  bell  rang." 

At  that  she  turned  pale,  and  seemed  about  to  fall. 

"You  are  mistaken,"  she  said  harshly;  "I  didn't 
ring.  You  must  have  been  dreaming."  I  had  never 
heard  her  speak  in  such  a  tone.  "Go  back  to  bed,"  she 
said,  closing  the  door  on  me. 

But  as  she  spoke  I  heard  sounds  again  in  the  hall 
below:  a  man's  step  this  time;  and  the  truth  leaped 
out  on  me. 

"Madam,"  I  said,  pushing  past  her,  "there  is  some 
one  in  the  house — " 

"Someone—?" 

"Mr.  Brympton,  I  think — I  hear  his  step  be 
low—" 

A  dreadful  look  came  over  her,  and  without  a 
word,  she  dropped  flat  at  my  feet.  I  fell  on  my  knees 
and  tried  to  lift  her:  by  the  way  she  breathed  I  saw 
it  was  no  common  faint.  But  as  I  raised  her  head 
there  came  quick  steps  on  the  stairs  and  across  the 
hall:  the  door  was  flung  open,  and  there  stood  Mr. 
Brympton,  in  his  travelling-clothes,  the  snow  drip 
ping  from  him.  He  drew  back  with  a  start  as  he  saw 
me  kneeling  by  my  mistress. 

"What  the  devil  is  this?"  he  shouted.  He  was  less 
[276] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

high-coloured  than  usual,  and  the  red  spot  came  out 
on  his  forehead. 

"Mrs.  Brympton  has  fainted,  sir,"  said  I. 

He  laughed  unsteadily  and  pushed  by  me.  "It's  a 
pity  she  didn't  choose  a  more  convenient  moment.  I'm 
sorry  to  disturb  her,  but — " 

I  raised  myself  up  aghast  at  the  man's  action. 

"Sir,"  said  I,  "are  you  mad?  What  are  you  doing?" 

"Going  to  meet  a  friend,"  said  he,  and  seemed  to 
make  for  the  dressing-room. 

At  that  my  heart  turned  over.  I  don't  know  what 
I  thought  or  feared;  but  I  sprang  up  and  caught  him 
by  the  sleeve. 

"Sir,  sir,"  said  I,  "for  pity's  sake  look  at  your 
wife!" 

He  shook  me  off  furiously. 

"It  seems  that's  done  for  me,"  says  he,  and  caught 
hold  of  the  dressing-room  door. 

At  that  moment  I  heard  a  slight  noise  inside.  Slight 
as  it  was,  he  heard  it  too,  and  tore  the  door  open ;  but 
as  he  did  so  he  dropped  back.  On  the  threshold  stood 
Emma  Saxon.  All  was  dark  behind  her,  but  I  saw  her 
plainly,  and  so  did  he.  He  threw  up  his  hands  as  if 
to  hide  his  face  from  her;  and  when  I  looked  again 
she  was  gone. 

He  stood  motionless,  as  if  the  strength  had  run  out 
of  him;  and  in  the  stillness  my  mistress  suddenly 
[277] 


THE    LADY'S    MAID'S    BELL 

raised  herself,  and  opening  her  eyes  fixed  a  look  on 
him.  Then  she  fell  back,  and  I  saw  the  death-flutter 
pass  over  her  .  .  . 

We  buried  her  on  the  third  day,  in  a  driving  snow 
storm.  There  were  few  people  in  the  church,  for  it 
was  bad  weather  to  come  from  town,  and  I've  a  no 
tion  my  mistress  was  one  that  hadn't  many  near 
friends.  Mr.  Ranford  was  among  the  last  to  come, 
just  before  they  carried  her  up  the  aisle.  He  was  in 
black,  of  course,  being  such  a  friend  of  the  family, 
and  I  never  saw  a  gentleman  so  pale.  As  he  passed 
me,  I  noticed  that  he  leaned  a  trifle  on  a  stick  he 
carried;  and  I  fancy  Mr.  Brympton  noticed  it  too,  for 
the  red  spot  came  out  sharp  on  his  forehead,  and  all 
through  the  service  he  kept  staring  across  the  church 
at  Mr.  Ranford,  instead  of  following  the  prayers  as 
a  mourner  should. 

When  it  was  over  and  we  went  out  to  the  grave 
yard,  Mr.  Ranford  had  disappeared,  and  as  soon  as 
my  poor  mistress's  body  was  underground,  Mr. 
Brympton  jumped  into  the  carriage  nearest  the  gate 
and  drove  off  without  a  word  to  any  of  us.  I  heard 
him  call  out,  "To  the  station,"  and  we  servants  went 
back  alone  to  the  house. 


[278] 


A  VENETIAN  NIGHT'S   ENTER 
TAINMENT 


A  VENETIAN  NIGHT'S   ENTER 
TAINMENT 


THIS  is  the  story  that,  in  the  dining-room  of 
the  old  Beacon  Street  house  (now  the  Alde- 
baran  Club)/ Judge  Anthony  Bracknell,  of 
the  famous  East  India  firm  of  Bracknell  &  Saulsbee, 
when  the  ladies  had  withdrawn  to  the  oval  parlour 
(and  Maria's  harp  was  throwing  its   gauzy  web  of 
sound  across  the  Common),  used  to  relate  to  his  grand 
sons,  about  the  year  that  Buonaparte  marched  upon 
Moscow. 


"T  T  IM  Venice!"  said  the  Lascar  with  the  big  ear- 
•*•  •*•  rings ;  and  Tony  Bracknell,  leaning  on  the  high 
gunwale  of  his  father's  East  Indiaman,  the  Hepzi- 
bah  B.,  saw  far  off,  across  the  morning  sea,  a  faint 
vision  of  towers  and  domes  dissolved  in  golden  air. 

It  was  a  rare  February  day  of  the  year  1760,  and 
young  Tony,  newly  of  age,  and  bound  on  the  grand 
tour  aboard  the  crack  merchantman  of  old  BracknelTs 
fleet,  felt  his  heart  leap  up  as  the  distant  city  trem 
bled  into  shape.  Venice!  The  name,  since  childhood, 
had  been  a  magician's  wand  to  him.  In  the  hall  of 
[281] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

the  old  Bracknell  house  at  Salem  there  hung  a  series 
of  yellowing  prints  which  Uncle  Richard  Saulsbee 
had  brought  home  from  one  of  his  long  voyages: 
views  of  heathen  mosques  and  palaces,  of  the  Grand 
Turk's  Seraglio,  of  St.  Peter's  Church  in  Rome;  and, 
in  a  corner — the  corner  nearest  the  rack  where  the 
old  flintlocks  hung — a  busy,  merry,  populous  scene 
entitled  St.  Mark's  Square  in  Venice.  This  picture, 
from  the  first,  had  singularly  taken  little  Tony's 
fancy.  His  unformulated  criticism  on  the  others  was 
that  they  lacked  action.  True,  in  the  view  of  St. 
Peter's  an  experienced-looking  gentleman  in  a  full- 
bottomed  wig  was  pointing  out  the  fairly  obvious 
monument  to  a  bashful  companion,  who  had  pre 
sumably  not  ventured  to  raise  his  eyes  to  it;  while, 
at  the  doors  of  the  Seraglio,  a  group  of  turbaned  in 
fidels  observed  with  less  hesitancy  the  approach  of  a 
veiled  lady  on  a  camel.  But  in  Venice  so  many  things 
were  happening  at  once — more,  Tony  was  sure,  than 
had  ever  happened  in  Boston  in  a  twelvemonth  or 
in  Salem  in  a  long  life-time.  For  here,  by  their  garb, 
were  people  of  every  nation  on  earth,  Chinamen, 
Turks,  Spaniards,  and  many  more,  mixed  with  a  parti 
colored  throng  of  gentry,  lackeys,  chapmen,  huck 
sters,  and  tall  personages  in  parsons'  gowns  who 
stalked  through  the  crowd  with  an  air  of  mastery, 
a  string  of  parasites  at  their  heels.  And  all  these  peo- 
[282  ] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

pie  seemed  to  be  diverting  themselves  hugely,  chaffer 
ing  with  the  hucksters,  watching  the  antics  of  trained 
dogs  and  monkeys,  distributing  doles  to  maimed  beg 
gars  or  having  their  pockets  picked  by  slippery-look 
ing  fellows  in  black — the  whole  with  such  an  air  of 
ease  and  good-humour  that  one  felt  the  cut-purses  to 
be  as  much  a  part  of  the  show  as  the  tumbling  acro 
bats  and  animals. 

As  Tony  advanced  in  years  and  experience  this 
childish  mumming  lost  its  magic;  but  not  so  the  early 
imaginings  it  had  excited.  For  the  old  picture  had 
been  but  the  spring-board  of  fancy,  the  first  step  of 
a  cloud-ladder  leading  to  a  land  of  dreams.  With 
these  dreams  the  name  of  Venice  remained  asso 
ciated;  and  all  that  observation  or  report  subse 
quently  brought  him  concerning  the  place  seemed,  on 
a  sober  warranty  of  fact,  to  confirm  its  claim  to  stand 
midway  between  reality  and  illusion.  There  was,  for 
instance,  a  slender  Venice  glass,  gold-powdered  as 
A  with  lily  pollen  or  the  dust  of  sunbeams,  that,  stand 
ing  in  the  corner  cabinet  betwixt  two  Lowestoft  cad 
dies,  seemed,  among  its  lifeless  neighbors,  to  pal 
pitate  like  an  impaled  butterfly.  There  was,  farther, 
a  gold  chain  of  his  mother's,  spun  of  that  same  sun- 
pollen,  so  thread-like,  impalpable,  that  it  slipped 
through  the  fingers  like  light,  yet  so  strong  that  it 
carried  a  heavy  pendant  which  seemed  held  in  air  as 
[283] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

if  by  magic.  Magic!  That  was  the  word  which  tte 
thought  of  Venice  evoked.  It  was  the  kind  of  place, 
Tony  felt,  in  which  things  elsewhere  impossible 
might  naturally  happen,  in  which  two  and  two  might 
make  five,  a  paradox  elope  with  a  syllogism,  and  a 
conclusion  give  the  lie  to  its  own  premiss.  Was  there 
ever  a  young  heart  that  did  not,  once  and  again,  long 
to  get  away  into  such  a  world  as  that  ?  Tony,  at  least, 
had  felt  the  longing  from  the  first  hour  when  the 
axioms  in  his  horn-book  had  brought  home  to  him  his 
heavy  responsibilities  as  a  Christian  and  a  sinner.  And 
now  here  was  his  wish  taking  shape  before  him,  as 
the  distant  haze  of  gold  shaped  itself  into  towers  and 
domes  across  the  morning  sea ! 

The  Reverend  Ozias  Mounce,  Tony's  governor  and 
bear-leader,  was  just  putting  a  hand  to  the  third 
clause  of  the  fourth  part  of  a  sermon  on  Free-Will 
and  Predestination  as  the  Hepzibah  B.'s  anchor  rat 
tled  overboard.  Tony,  in  his  haste  to  be  ashore,  would 
have  made  one  plunge  with  the  anchor;  but  the  Rev 
erend  Ozias,  on  being  roused  from  his  lucubrations, 
earnestly  protested  against  leaving  his  argument  in 
suspense.  What  was  the  trifle  of  an  arrival  at  some 
Papistical  foreign  city,  where  the  very  churches  wore 
turbans  like  so  many  Moslem  idolaters,  to  the  im 
portant  fact  of  Mr.  Mounce's  summing  up  his  con 
clusions  before  the  Muse  of  Theology  took  flight  ?  He 
[284] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

should  be  happy,  he  said,  if  the  tide  served,  to  visit 
Venice  with  Mr.  Bracknell  the  next  morning. 

The  next  morning,  ha ! — Tony  murmured  a  sub 
missive  "Yes,  sir,"  winked  at  the  subjugated  captain, 
buckled  on  his  sword,  pressed  his  hat  down  with  a 
flourish,  and  before  the  Reverend  Ozias  had  arrived 
at  his  next  deduction,  was  skimming  merrily  shore 
ward  in  the  Hepzibah's  gig. 

A  moment  more  and  he  was  in  the  thick  of  it! 
Here  was  the  very  world  of  the  old  print,  only  suf 
fused  with  sunlight  and  colour  and  bubbling  with 
merry  noises.  What  a  scene  it  was !  A  square  enclosed 
in  fantastic  painted  buildings,  and  peopled  with  a 
throng  as  fantastic:  a  bawling,  laughing,  jostling, 
sweating  mob,  parti-colored,  parti-speeched,  crack 
ling  and  sputtering  under  the  hot  sun  like  a  dish  of 
fritters  over  a  kitchen  fire.  Tony,  agape,  shouldered 
his  way  through  the  press,  aware  at  once  that,  spite 
of  the  tumult,  the  shrillness,  the  gesticulation,  there 
A  was  no  undercurrent  of  clownishness,  no  tendency  to 
horse-play,  as  in  such  crowds  on  market-day  at 
home,  but  a  kind  of  facetious  suavity  which  seemed 
to  include  everybody  in  the  circumference  of  one 
huge  joke.  In  such  an  air  the  sense  of  strangeness 
soon  wore  off,  and  Tony  was  beginning  to  feel  him 
self  vastly  at  home,  when  a  lift  of  the  tide  bore  him 
against  a  droll-looking  bell-ringing  fellow  who  car- 
[285] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

ried  above  his  head  a  tall  metal  tree  hung  with  sher 
bet-glasses.  The  encounter  set  the  glasses  spinning, 
and  three  or  four  spun  off  and  clattered  to  the  stones. 
The  sherbet-seller  called  on  all  the  saints,  and  Tony, 
clapping  a  lordly  hand  to  his  pocket,  tossed  him  a 
ducat  by  mistake  for  a  sequin.  The  fellow's  eyes  shot 
out  of  their  orbits,  and  just  then  a  personable-looking 
young  man  who  had  observed  the  transaction  stepped 
up  to  Tony  and  said  pleasantly  in  English: 

"I  perceive,  sir,  that  you  are  not  familiar  with  our 
currency." 

"Does  he  want  more?"  says  Tony,  very  lordly; 
whereat  the  other  laughed  and  replied:  "You  have 
given  him  enough  to  retire  from  his  business  and  open 
a  gaming-house  over  the  arcade." 

Tony  joined  in  the  laugh,  and  this  incident  bridg 
ing  the  preliminaries,  the  two  young  men  were  pres 
ently  hobnobbing  over  a  glass  of  Canary  in  front  of 
one  of  the  coffee-houses  about  the  square.  Tony 
counted  himself  lucky  to  have  run  across  an  English 
speaking  companion  who  was  good-natured  enough  to 
give  him  a  clue  to  the  labyrinth;  and  when  he  had 
paid  for  the  Canary  (in  the  coin  his  friend  selected) 
they  set  out  again  to  view  the  town.  The  Italian  gen 
tleman,  who  called  himself  Count  Rialto,  appeared 
to  have  a  very  numerous  acquaintance,  and  was  able  to 
point  out  to  Tony  all  the  chief  dignitaries  of  the 
[286] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

state,  the  men  of  ton  and  ladies  of  fashion,  as  well  as 
a  number  of  other  characters  of  a  kind  not  openly 
mentioned  in  taking  a  census  of  Salem. 

Tony,  who  was  not  averse  from  reading  when 
nothing  better  offered,  had  perused  "The  Merchant 
of  Venice"  and  Mr.  Otway's  fine  tragedy;  but  though 
these  pieces  had  given  him  a  notion  that  the  social 
usages  of  Venice  differed  from  those  at  home,  he  was 
unprepared  for  the  surprising  appearance  and  man 
ners  of  the  great  people  his  friend  named  to  him. 
The  gravest  Senators  of  the  Republic  went  in  prodi 
gious  striped  trousers,  short  cloaks  and  feathered 
hats.  One  nobleman  wore  a  ruff  and  doctor's  gown, 
another  a  black  velvet  tunic  slashed  with  rose-colour; 
while  the  President  of  the  dreaded  Council  of  Ten 
was  a  terrible  strutting  fellow  with  a  rapier-like  nose, 
a  buff  leather  jerkin  and  a  trailing  scarlet  cloak  that 
the  crowd  was  careful  not  to  step  on. 

It  was  all  vastly  diverting,  and  Tony  would  gladly 

*  have  gone  on  forever ;  but  he  had  given  his  word  to 

the  captain  to  be  at  the  landing-place  at  sunset,  and 

here  was  dusk  already  creeping  over  the  skies !  Tony 

was  a  man  of  honour ;  and  having  pressed  on  the  Count 

a  handsome  damascened  dagger  selected  from  one  of 

the  goldsmiths'  shops  in  a  narrow  street  lined  with 

such  wares,  he  insisted  on  turning  his  face  toward  the 

Hepzibah's  gig.  The  Count  yielded  reluctantly;  but 

[287] 


A   VENETIAN    NIGHT 

as  they  came  out  again  on  the  square  they  were  caught 
in  a  great  throng  pouring  toward  the  doors  of  the 
cathedral. 

"They  go  to  Benediction/'  said  the  Count.  "A  beau 
tiful  sight,  with  many  lights  and  flowers.  It  is  a  pity 
you  cannot  take  a  peep  at  it." 

Tony  thought  so  too,  and  in  another  minute  a  leg 
less  beggar  had  pulled  back  the  leathern  flap  of  the 
cathedral  door,  and  they  stood  in  a  haze  of  gold  and 
perfume  that  seemed  to  rise  and  fall  on  the  mighty 
undulations  of  the  organ.  Here  the  press  was  as  thick 
as  without;  and  as  Tony  flattened  himself  against  a 
pillar  he  heard  a  pretty  voice  at  his  elbow : — "Oh,  sir, 
oh,  sir,  your  sword!" 

He  turned  at  sound  of  the  broken  English,  and 
saw  a  girl  who  matched  the  voice  trying  to  disengage 
her  dress  from  the  tip  of  his  scabbard.  She  wore 
one  of  the  voluminous  black  hoods  which  the  Vene 
tian  ladies  affected,  and  under  its  projecting  eaves 
her  face  spied  out  at  him  as  sweet  as  a  nesting 
bird. 

In  the  dusk  their  hands  met  over  the  scabbard,  and 
as  she  freed  herself  a  shred  of  her  lace  flounce  clung 
to  Tony's  enchanted  fingers.  Looking  after  her,  he 
saw  she  was  on  the  arm  of  a  pompous-looking  gray- 
beard  in  a  long  black  gown  and  scarlet  stockings, 
who,  on  perceiving  the  exchange  of  glances  between 
[  288] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

the  young  people,  drew  the  lady  away  with  a  threat 
ening  look. 

The  Count  met  Tony's  eye  with  a  smile.  "One  of 
our  Venetian  beauties,"  said  he;  "the  lovely  Polixena 
Cador.  She  is  thought  to  have  the  finest  eyes  in  Ven 
ice." 

"She  spoke  English,"  stammered  Tony. 

"Oh — ah — precisely:  she  learned  the  language  at  the 
Court  of  St.  James,  where  her  father,  the  Senator, 
was  formerly  accredited  as  Ambassador.  She  played 
as  an  infant  with  the  royal  princes  of  England." 

"And  that  was  her  father?" 

"Assuredly:  young  ladies  of  Donna  Polixena's 
rank  do  not  go  abroad  save  with  their  parents  or  a 
duenna." 

Just  then  a  soft  hand  slid  into  Tony's.  His  heart 
gave  a  foolish  bound,  and  he  turned  about  half- 
expecting  to  meet  again  the  merry  eyes  under  the 
hood;  but  saw  instead  a  slender  brown  boy,  in  some 
kind  of  fanciful  page's  dress,  who  thrust  a  folded 
paper  between  his  fingers  and  vanished  in  the  throng. 
Tony,  in  a  tingle,  glanced  surreptitiously  at  the 
Count,  who  appeared  absorbed  in  his  prayers.  The 
crowd,  at  the  ringing  of  a  bell,  had  in  fact  been  over- 
swept  by  a  sudden  wave  of  devotion;  and  Tony 
seized  the  moment  to  step  beneath  a  lighted  shrine 
with  his  letter. 

[  289  ] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

"I  am  in  dreadful  trouble  and  implore  your  help. 
Polixena" — he  read;  but  hardly  had  he  seized  the 
sense  of  the  words  when  a  hand  fell  on  his  shoulder, 
and  a  stern-looking  man  in  a  cocked  hat,  and  bear 
ing  a  kid  of  rod  or  mace,  pronounced  a  few  words  in 
Venetian. 

Tony,  with  a  start,  thrust  the  letter  in  his  breast, 
and  tried  to  jerk  himself  free;  but  the  harder  he 
jerked  the  tighter  grew  the  other's  grip,  and  the 
Count,  presently  perceiving  what  had  happened, 
pushed  his  way  through  the  crowd,  and  whispered 
hastily  to  his  companion:  "For  God's  sake,  make  no 
struggle.  This  is  serious.  Keep  quiet  and  do  as  I  tell 
you." 

Tony  was  no  chicken-heart.  He  had  something  of 
a  name  for  pugnacity  among  the  lads  of  his  own  age 
at  home,  and  was  not  the  man  to  stand  in  Venice 
what  he  would  have  resented  in  Salem;  but  the  devil 
of  it  was  that  this  black  fellow  seemed  to  be  pointing 
to  the  letter  in  his  breast;  and  this  suspicion  was  con 
firmed  by  the  Count's  agitated  whisper: 

"This  is  one  of  the  agents  of  the  Ten.     For  God's 
sake,  no  outcry."  He  exchanged  a  word  or  two  with 
the  mace-bearer  and  again  turned  to  Tony.  "You  have 
been  seen  concealing  a  letter  about  your  person — " 
"And  what  of  that?"  says  Tony  furiously. 
"Gently,   gently,   my   master.   A   letter  handed   to 
[290] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

you  by  the  page  of  Donna  Polixena  Cador.  A  black 
business !  Oh,  a  very  black  business !  This  Cador  is 
one  of  the  most  powerful  nobles  in  Venice.  I  be 
seech  you,  not  a  word,  sir!  Let  me  think — deliber 
ate—" 

His  hand  on  Tony's  shoulder,  he  carried  on  a  rapid 
dialogue  with  the  potentate  in  the  cocked  hat. 

"I  am  sorry,  sir — but  our  young  ladies  of  rank 
are  as  jealously  guarded  as  the  Grand  Turk's  wives, 
and  you  must  be  answerable  for  this  scandal.  The 
best  I  can  do  is  to  have  you  taken  privately  to  the 
Palazzo  Cador,  instead  of  being  brought  before  the 
Council.  I  have  pleaded  your  youth  and  inexperience" 
— Tony  winced  at  this — "and  I  think  the  business 
may  still  be  arranged." 

Meanwhile  the  agent  of  the  Ten  had  yielded  his 
place  to  a  sharp-featured  shabby-looking  fellow  in 
black,  dressed  somewhat  like  a  lawyer's  clerk,  who 
laid  a  grimy  hand  on  Tony's  arm,  and  with  many 
apologetic  gestures  steered  him  through  the  crowd  to 
the  doors  of  the  church.  The  Count  held  him  by  the 
other  arm,  and  in  this  fashion  they  emerged  on  the 
square,  which  now  lay  in  darkness  save  for  the  many 
lights  twinkling  under  the  arcade  and  in  the  windows 
of  the  gaming-rooms  above  it. 

Tony  by  this  time  had  regained  voice  enough  to 
declare  that  he  would  go  where  they  pleased,  but  that 
[291] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

he  must  first  say  a  word  to  the  mate  of  the  Hepzibah, 
who  had  now  been  awaiting  him  some  two  hours  or 
more  at  the  landing-place. 

The  Count  repeated  this  to  Tony's  custodian,  but 
the  latter  shook  his  head  and  rattled  off  a  sharp  de 
nial. 

"Impossible,  sir,"  said  the  Count.  "I  entreat  you 
not  to  insist.  Any  resistance  will  tell  against  you  in 
the  end." 

Tony  fell  silent.  With  a  rapid  eye  he  was  measur 
ing  his  chances  of  escape.  In  wind  and  limb  he  was 
more  than  a  mate  for  his  captors,  and  boyhood's 
ruses  were  not  so  far  behind  him  but  he  felt  himself 
equal  to  outwitting  a  dozen  grown  men;  but  he  had 
the  sense  to  see  that  at  a  cry  the  crowd  would  close  in 
on  him.  Space  was  what  he  wanted :  a  clear  ten  yards, 
and  he  would  have  laughed  at  Doge  and  Council.  But 
the  throng  was  thick  as  glue,  and  he  walked  on  sub 
missively,  keeping  his  eye  alert  for  an  opening.  Sud 
denly  the  mob  swerved  aside  after  some  new  show. 
Tony's  fist  instantly  shot  out  at  the  black  fellow's 
chest,  and  before  the  latter  could  right  himself  the 
young  New  Englander  was  showing  a  clean  pair  of 
heels  to  his  escort.  On  he  sped,  cleaving  the  crowd  like 
a  flood-tide  in  Gloucester  bay,  diving  under  the  first 
arch  that  caught  his  eye,  dashing  down  a  lane  to  an 
unlit  water-way,  and  plunging  across  a  narrow  humD- 
[292] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

back  bridge  which  landed  him  in  a  black  pocket  between 
walls.  But  now  his  pursuers  were  at  his  back,  rein 
forced  by  the  yelping  mob.  The  walls  were  too  high 
to  scale,  and  for  all  his  courage  Tony's  breath  came 
short  as  he  paced  the  masonry  cage  in  which  ill-luck 
had  landed  him.  Suddenly  a  gate  opened  in  one  of 
the  walls,  and  a  slip  of  a  servant  wench  looked  out 
and  beckoned  him.  There  was  no  time  to  weigh 
chances.  Tony  dashed  through  the  gate,  his  rescuer 
slammed  and  bolted  it,  and  the  two  stood  in  a  narrow 
paved  well  between  high  houses. 


II 


THE  servant  picked  up  a  lantern  and  signed  to 
Tony  to  follow  her.  They  climbed  a  squalid 
stairway  of  stone,  felt  their  way  along  a  corridor,  and 
entered  a  tall  vaulted  room  feebly  lit  by  an  oil-lamp 
hung  from  the  painted  ceiling.  Tony  discerned  traces 
of  former  splendour  in  his  surroundings,  but  he  had 
no  time  to  examine  them,  for  a  figure  started  up  at 
his  approach  and  in  the  dim  light  he  recognized  the 
girl  who  was  the  cause  of  all  his  troubles. 

She  sprang  toward  him  with  outstretched  hands, 
but  as  he  advanced  her  face  changed  and  she  shrank 
back  abashed. 

"This  is   a  misunderstanding — a  dreadful  misun- 
[293] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

derstanding,"  she  cried  out  in  her  pretty  broken  Eng 
lish.  "Oh,  how  does  it  happen  that  you  are  here?" 

"Through  no  choice  of  my  own,  madam,  I  assure 
you!"  retorted  Tony,  not  overpleased  by  his  recep 
tion. 

"But  why — how — how  did  you  make  this  unfortu 
nate  mistake?" 

"Why,  madam,  if  you'll  excuse  my  candour,  I  think 
the  mistake  was  yours — " 

"Mine?" 

— "in  sending  me  a  letter — " 

"You— a.  letter?" 

— "by  a  simpleton  of  a  lad,  who  must  needs  hand 
it  to  me  under  your  father's  very  nose — " 

The  girl  broke  in  on  him  with  a  cry.  "What !  It 
was  you  who  received  my  letter?"  She  swept  round 
on  the  little  maid-servant  and  submerged  her  under  a 
flood  of  Venetian.  The  latter  volleyed  back  in  the 
same  jargon,  and  as  she  did  so,  Tony's  astonished 
eye  detected  in  her  the  doubleted  page  who  had 
handed  him  the  letter  in  Saint  Mark's. 

"What!"  he  cried,  "the  lad  was  this  girl  in  dis 
guise?" 

Polixena  broke  off  with  an  irrepressible  smile;  but 
her  face  clouded  instantly  and  she  returned  to  the 
charge. 

"This  wicked,  careless  girl — she  has  ruined  me,  she 
[294] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

will  be  my  undoing !  Oh,  sir,  how  can  I  make  you  un 
derstand?  The  letter  was  not  intended  for  you — it 
was  meant  for  the  English  Ambassador,  an  old  friend 
of  my  mother's,  from  whom  I  hoped  to  obtain  assist 
ance — oh,  how  can  I  ever  excuse  myself  to  you?" 

"No  excuses  are  needed,  madam/'  said  Tony  bow 
ing;  "though  I  am  surprised,  I  own,  that  any  one 
should  mistake  me  for  an  ambassador." 

Here  a  wave  of  mirth  again  overran  Polixena's 
face.  "Oh,  sir,  you  must  pardon  my  poor  girl's  mis 
take.  She  heard  you  speaking  English,  and — and — I 
had  told  her  to  hand  the  letter  to  the  handsomest  for 
eigner  in  the  church."  Tony  bowed  again,  more  pro 
foundly.  "The  English  Ambassador,"  Polixena  added 
simply,  "is  a  very  handsome  man." 

"I  wish,  madam,  I  were  a  better  proxy!" 

She  echoed  his  laugh,  and  then  clapped  her  hands 
together  with  a  look  of  anguish.  "Fool  that  I  am! 
How  can  I  jest  at  such  a  moment?  I  am  in  dreadful 
trouble,  and  now  perhaps  I  have  brought  trouble  on 
you  also —  Oh,  my  father !  I  hear  my  father  com 
ing!"  She  turned  pale  and  leaned  tremblingly  upon 
the  little  servant. 

Footsteps  and  loud  voices  were  in  fact  heard  out 
side,  and  a  moment  later  the  red-stockinged  Senator 
stalked  into  the  room  attended  by  half-a-dozen  of  the 
magnificoes  whom  Tony  had  seen  abroad  in  the  square. 
[295] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

At  sight  of  him,  all  clapped  hands  to  their  swords 
and  burst  into  furious  outcries;  and  though  their 
jargon  was  unintelligible  to  the  young  man,  their 
tones  and  gestures  made  their  meaning  unpleasantly 
plain.  The  Senator,  with  a  start  of  anger,  first  flung 
himself  on  the  intruder;  then,  snatched  back  by  his 
companions,  turned  wrathfully  on  his  daughter,  who, 
at  his  feet,  with  outstretched  arms  and  streaming 
face,  pleaded  her  cause  with  all  the  eloquence  of 
young  distress.  Meanwhile  the  other  nobles  gesticu 
lated  vehemently  among  themselves,  and  one,  a 
truculent-looking  personage  in  ruff  and  Spanish  cape, 
stalked  apart,  keeping  a  jealous  eye  on  Tony.  The 
latter  was  at  his  wits'  end  how  to  comport  himself, 
for  the  lovely  Polixena's  tears  had  quite  drowned  her 
few  words  of  English,  and  beyond  guessing  that  the 
magnificoes  meant  him  a  mischief  he  had  no  notion 
what  they  would  be  at. 

At  this  point,  luckily,  his  friend  Count  Rialto  sud 
denly  broke  in  on  the  scene,  and  was  at  once  assailed 
by  all  the  tongues  in  the  room.  He  pulled  a  long  face 
at  sight  of  Tony,  but  signed  to  the  young  man  to  be 
silent,  and  addressed  himself  earnestly  to  the  Sena 
tor.  The  latter,  at  first,  would  not  draw  breath  to  hear 
him;  but  presently,  sobering,  he  walked  apart  with 
the  Count,  and  the  two  conversed  together  out  of  ear 
shot. 

[296] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

"My  dear  sir,"  said  the  Count,  at  length  turning 
to  Tony  with  a  perturbed  countenance,  "it  is  as  I 
feared,  and  you  are  fallen  into  a  great  misfortune." 

"A  great  misfortune!  A  great  trap,  I  call  it!" 
shouted  Tony,  whose  blood,  by  this  time,  was  boil 
ing  ;  but  as  he  uttered  the  word  the  beautiful  Polixena 
cast  such  a  stricken  look  on  him,  that  he  blushed  up 
to  the  forehead. 

"Be  careful,"  said  the  Count,  in  a  low  tone. 
"Though  his  Illustriousness  does  not  speak  your  lan 
guage,  he  understands  a  few  words  of  it,  and — " 

"So  much  the  better!"  broke  in  Tony;  "I  hope  he 
will  understand  me  if  I  ask  him  in  plain  English 
what  is  his  grievance  against  me." 

The  Senator,  at  this,  would  have  burst  forth  again ; 
but  the  Count,  stepping  between,  answered  quickly: 
"His  grievance  against  you  is  that  you  have  been  de 
tected  in  secret  correspondence  with  his  daughter,  the 
most  noble  Polixena  Cador,  the  betrothed  bride  of 
this  gentleman,  the  most  illustrious  Marquess  Zani- 
polo — "  and  he  waved  a  deferential  hand  at  the 
frowning  hidalgo  of  the  cape  and  ruff. 

"Sir,"  said  Tony,  "if  that  is  the  extent  of  my 
offence,  it  lies  with  the  young  lady  to  set  me  free, 
since  by  her  own  avowal — "  but  here  he  stopped  short, 
for,  to  his  surprise,  Polixena  shot  a  terrified  glance  at 
him. 

[297] 


A   VENETIAN    NIGHT 

"Sir/'  interposed  the  Count,  "we  are  not  accus 
tomed  in  Venice  to  take  shelter  behind  a  lady's  repu 
tation." 

"No  more  are  we  in  Salem,"  retorted  Tony  in  a 
white  heat.  "I  was  merely  about  to  remark  that,  by 
the  young  lady's  avowal,  she  has  never  seen  me  be 
fore." 

Polixena's  eyes  signalled  her  gratitude,  and  he  felt 
he  would  have  died  to  defend  her. 

The  Count  translated  his  statement,  and  presently 
pursued:  "His  Illustriousness  observes  that,  in  that 
case,  his  daughter's  misconduct  has  been  all  the  more 
reprehensible." 

"  Her  misconduct?  Of  what  does  he  accuse 
her?" 

"Of  sending  you,  just  now,  in  the  church  of  Saint 
Mark,  a  letter  which  you  were  seen  to  read  openly 
and  thrust  in  your  bosom.  The  incident  was  witnessed 
by  his  Illustriousness  the  Marquess  Zanipolo,  who,  in 
consequence,  has  already  repudiated  his  unhappy 
bride." 

Tony  stared  contemptuously  at  the  black  Mar 
quess.  "If  his  Illustriousness  is  so  lacking  in  gallantry 
as  to  repudiate  a  lady  on  so  trivial  a  pretext,  it  is  he 
and  not  I  who  should  be  the  object  of  her  father's 
resentment." 

"That,  my  dear  young  gentleman,  is  hardly  for 
[298] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

you  to  decide.  Your  only  excuse  being  your  ignorance 
of  our  customs,  it  is  scarcely  for  you  to  advise  us  how 
to  behave  in  matters  of  punctilio." 

It  seemed  to  Tony  as  though  the  Count  was  going 
over  to  his  enemies,  and  the  thought  sharpened  his 
retort. 

"I  had  supposed/'  said  he,  "that  men  of  sense  had 
much  the  same  behaviour  in  all  countries,  and  that, 
here  as  elsewhere,  a  gentleman  would  be  taken  at  his 
word.  I  solemnly  affirm  that  the  letter  I  was  seen  to 
read  reflects  in  no  way  on  the  honour  of  this  young 
lady,  and  has  in  fact  nothing  to  do  with  what  you 
suppose." 

As  he  had  himself  no  notion  what  the  letter 
was  about,  this  was  as  far  as  he  dared  commit  him 
self. 

There  was  another  brief  consultation  in  the  oppos 
ing  camp,  and  the  Count  then  said: — "We  all  know, 
sir,  that  a  gentleman  is  obliged  to  meet  certain  in 
quiries  by  a  denial;  but  you  have  at  your  command 
the  means  of  immediately  clearing  the  lady.  Will  you 
show  the  letter  to  her  father?" 

There  was  a  perceptible  pause,  during  which  Tony, 
while  appearing  to  look  straight  before  him,  managed 
to  deflect  an  interrogatory  glance  toward  Polixena. 
Her  reply  was  a  faint  negative  motion,  accompanied 
by  unmistakable  signs  of  apprehension. 
[299] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

"Poor  girl!"  he  thought,  "she  is  in  a  worse  case 
than  I  imagined,  and  whatever  happens  I  must  keep 
her  secret." 

He  turned  to  the  Senator  with  a  deep  bow.  "I  am 
not,"  said  he,  "in  the  habit  of  showing  my  private 
correspondence  to  strangers." 

The  Count  interpreted  these  words,  and  Donna 
Polixena's  father,  dashing  his  hand  on  his  hilt,  broke 
into  furious  invective,  while  the  Marquess  continued 
to  nurse  his  outraged  feelings  aloof. 

The  Count  shook  his  head  funereally.  "Alas,  sir,  it 
is  as  I  feared.  This  is  not  the  first  time  that  youth 
and  propinquity  have  led  to  fatal  imprudence.  But  I 
need  hardly,  I  suppose,  point  out  the  obligation  in 
cumbent  upon  you  as  a  man  of  honour." 

Tony  stared  at  him  haughtily,  with  a  look  which 
was  meant  for  the  Marquess.  "And  what  obligation 
is  that?" 

"To  repair  the  wrong  you  have  done — in  other 
words,  to  marry  the  lady." 

Polixena  at  this  burst  into  tears,  and  Tony  said 
to  himself:  "Why  in  heaven  does  she  not  bid  me  show 
the  letter  ?"  Then  he  remembered  that  it  had  no  super 
scription,  and  that  the  words  it  contained,  supposing 
them  to  have  been  addressed  to  himself,  were  hardly 
of  a  nature  to  disarm  suspicion.  The  sense  of  the  girl's 
grave  plight  effaced  all  thought  of  his  own  risk,  but 
[  300] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

the  Count's  last  words  struck  him  as  so  preposterous 
that  he  could  not  repress  a  smile. 

"I  cannot  flatter  myself/'  said  he,  "that  the  lady 
would  welcome  this  solution." 

The  Count's  manner  became  increasingly  cere 
monious.  "Such  modesty,"  he  said,  "becomes  your 
youth  and  inexperience;  but  even  if  it  were  justified 
it  would  scarcely  alter  the  case,  as  it  is  always  as 
sumed  in  this  country  that  a  young  lady  wishes  to 
marry  the  man  whom  her  father  has  selected." 

"But  I  understand  just  now,"  Tony  interposed,  "that 
the  gentleman  yonder  was  in  that  enviable  position." 

"So  he  was,  till  circumstances  obliged  him  to  waive 
the  privilege  in  your  favour." 

"He  does  me  too  much  honour;  but  if  a  deep  sense 
of  my  un worthiness  obliges  me  to  decline — " 

"You  are  still,"  interrupted  the  Count,  "labouring 
tinder  a  misapprehension.  Your  choice  in  the  matter 
is  no  more  to  be  consulted  than  the  lady's.  Not  to  put 
too  fine  a  point  on  it,  it  is  necessary  that  you  should 
marry  her  within  the  hour." 

Tony,  at  this,  for  all  his  spirit,  felt  the  blood  run 
thin  in  his  veins.  He  looked  in  silence  at  the  threat 
ening  visages  between  himself  and  the  door,  stole  a 
side-glance  at  the  high  barred  windows  of  the  apart 
ment,  and  then  turned  to  Polixena,  who  had  fallen 
sobbing  at  her  father's  feet. 
[301] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

"And  if  I  refuse?"  said  he. 

The  Count  made  a  significant  gesture.  "I  am  not 
so  foolish  as  to  threaten  a  man  of  your  mettle.  But 
perhaps  you  are  unaware  what  the  consequences  would 
be  to  the  lady." 

Polixena,  at  this,  struggling  to  her  feet,  addressed 
a  few  impassioned  words  to  the  Count  and  her  father ; 
but  the  latter  put  her  aside  with  an  obdurate  gesture. 

The  Count  turned  to  Tony.  "The  lady  herself 
pleads  for  you — at  what  cost  you  do  not  guess — but 
as  you  see  it  is  vain.  In  an  hour  his  Illustriousness's 
chaplain  will  be  here.  Meanwhile  his  Illustriousness 
consents  to  leave  you  in  the  custody  of  your  be 
trothed." 

He  stepped  back,  and  the  other  gentlemen,  bow 
ing  with  deep  ceremony  to  Tony,  stalked  out  one  by 
one  from  the  room.  Tony  heard  the  key  turn  in  the 
lock,  and  found  himself  alone  with  Polixena. 


Ill 


THE   girl  had  sunk  into  a  chair,  her  face  hid 
den,  a  picture  of  shame  and  agony.    So  moving 
was  the  sight  that  Tony  once  again  forgot  his  own 
extremity    in   the   view   of    her    distress.      He   went 
[302] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

and  kneeled  beside  her,  drawing  her  hands  from  her 
face. 

"Oh,  don't  make  me  look  at  you!"  she  sobbed;  but 
it  was  on  his  bosom  that  she  hid  from  his  gaze.  He 
held  her  there  a  breathing-space,  as  he  might  have 
clasped  a  weeping  child;  then  she  drew  back  and  put 
him  gently  from  her. 

"What  humiliation!"  she  lamented. 

"Do  you  think  I  blame  you  for  what  has  hap 
pened  ?" 

"Alas,  was  it  not  my  foolish  letter  that  brought 
you  to  this  plight  ?  And  how  nobly  you  defended  me ! 
How  generous  it  was  of  you  not  to  show  the  letter! 
If  my  father  knew  I  had  written  to  the  Ambassador 
to  save  me  from  this  dreadful  marriage  his  anger 
against  me  would  be  even  greater." 

"Ah — it  was  that  you  wrote  for?"  cried  Tony  with 
unaccountable  relief. 

"Of  course — what  else  did  you  think?" 

"But  is  it  too  late  for  the  Ambassador  to  save 
you?" 

"From  you?"  A  smile  flashed  through  her  tears. 
"Alas,  yes."  She  drew  back  and  hid  her  face  again, 
as  though  overcome  by  a  fresh  wave  of  shame. 

Tony  glanced  about  him.  "If  I  could  wrench  a  bar 
out  of  that  window — "  he  muttered. 

"Impossible !  The  court  is  guarded.  You  are  a  pris- 
[303] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

oner,  alas.  Oh,  I  must  speak!"  She  sprang  up  and 
paced  the  room.  "But  indeed  you  can  scarce  think 
worse  of  me  than  you  do  already — " 

"I  think  ill  of  you?" 

"Alas,  you  must!  To  be  unwilling  to  marry  the 
man  my  father  has  chosen  for  me — " 

"Such  a  beetle-browed  lout!  It  would  be  a  burn 
ing  shame  if  you  married  him." 

"Ah,  you  come  from  a  free  country.  Here  a  girl  is 
allowed  no  choice." 

"It  is  infamous,  I  say — infamous !" 

"No,  no — I  ought  to  have  resigned  myself,  like  so 
many  others." 

"Resigned  yourself  to  that  brute!  Impossible!" 

"He  has  a  dreadful  name  for  violence — his  gon 
dolier  has  told  my  little  maid  such  tales  of  him!  But 
why  do  I  talk  of  myself,  when  it  is  of  you  I  should 
be  thinking?" 

"Of  me,  poor  child?"  cried  Tony,  losing  his  head. 

"Yes,  and  how  to  save  you — for  I  can  save  you! 
But  every  moment  counts — and  yet  what  I  have  to 
say  is  so  dreadful." 

"Nothing  from  your  lips  could  seem  dreadful." 

"Ah,  if  he  had  had  your  way  of  speaking!" 

"Well,  now  at  least  you  are  free  of  him,"  said 
Tony,  a  little  wildly;  but  at  this  she  stood  up  and 
bent  a  grave  look  on  him. 

[304] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

"No,  I  am  not  free/'  she  said;  "but  you  are,  if  you 
will  do  as  I  tell  you." 

Tony,  at  this,  felt  a  sudden  dizziness;  as  though, 
from  a  mad  flight  through  clouds  and  darkness,  he  had 
dropped  to  safety  again,  and  the  fall  had  stunned  him. 

"What  am  I  to  do?"  he  said. 

"Look  away  from  me,  or  I  can  never  tell  you." 

He  thought  at  first  that  this  was  a  jest,  but  her 
eyes  commanded  him,  and  reluctantly  he  walked  away 
and  leaned  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  She  stood 
in  the  middle  of  the  room,  and  as  soon  as  his  back 
was  turned  she  began  to  speak  in  a  quick  monotonous 
voice,  as  though  she  were  reciting  a  lesson. 

"You  must  know  that  the  Marquess  Zanipolo, 
though  a  great  noble,  is  not  a  rich  man.  True,  he 
has  large  estates,  but  he  is  a  desperate  spendthrift 
and  gambler,  and  would  sell  his  soul  for  a  round  sum 
of  ready  money. — If  you  turn  round  I  shall  not  go 
on! — He  wrangled  horribly  with  my  father  over  my 
dowry — he  wanted  me  to  have  more  than  either  of 
my  sisters,  though  one  married  a  Procurator  and  the 
other  a  grandee  of  Spain.  But  my  father  is  a  gambler 
too — oh,  such  fortunes  as  are  squandered  over  the 
arcade  yonder!  And  so — and  so — don't  turn,  I  im 
plore  you — oh,  do  you  begin  to  see  my  meaning?" 

She  broke  off  sobbing,  and  it  took  all  his  strength 
to  keep  his  eyes  from  her. 

[  305  ] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

"Go  on,"  he  said. 

"Will  you  not  understand?  Oh,  I  would  say  any 
thing  to  save  you!  You  don't  know  us  Venetians — 
we're  all  to  be  bought  for  a  price.  It  is  not  only  the 
brides  who  are  marketable — sometimes  the  husbands 
sell  themselves  too. — And  they  think  you  rich — my 
father  does,  and  the  others — I  don't  know  why,  un 
less  you  have  shown  your  money  too  freely — and  the 
English  are  all  rich,  are  they  not?  And — oh,  oh — do 
you  understand?  Oh,  I  can't  bear  your  eyes!" 

She  dropped  into  a  chair,  her  head  on  her  arms, 
and  Tony  in  a  flash  was  at  her  side. 

"My  poor  child,  my  poor  Polixena !"  he  cried,  and 
wept  and  clasped  her. 

"You  are  rich,  are  you  not?  You  would  promise 
them  a  ransom?"  she  persisted. 

"To  enable  you  to  marry  the  Marquess?" 

"To  enable  you  to  escape  from  this  place.  Oh,  I 
hope  I  may  never  see  your  face  again."  She  fell  to 
weeping  once  more,  and  he  drew  away  and  paced  the 
floor  in  a  fever. 

Presently  she  sprang  up  with  a  fresh  air  of  reso 
lution,  and  pointed  to  a  clock  against  the  wall.  "The 
hour  is  nearly  over.  It  is  quite  true  that  my 
father  is  gone  to  fetch  his  chaplain.  Oh,  I  im 
plore  you,  be  warned  by  me!  There  is  no  other 
way  of  escape." 

[306] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

"And  if  I  do  as  you  say — ?" 

"You  are  safe!  You  are  free!  I  stake  my  life 
on  it." 

"And  you — you  are  married  to  that  villain?" 

"But  I  shall  have  saved  you.  Tell  me  your  name, 
that  I  may  say  it  to  myself  when  I  am  alone." 

"My  name  is  Anthony.  But  you  must  not  marry 
that  fellow." 

"You  forgive  me,  Anthony?  You  don't  think  too 
badly  of  me?" 

"I  say  you  must  not  marry  that  fellow." 

She  laid  a  trembling  hand  on  his  arm.  "Time 
presses,"  she  adjured  him,  "and  I  warn  you  there  is 
no  other  way." 

For  a  moment  he  had  a  vision  of  his  mother,  sit 
ting  very  upright,  on  a  Sunday  evening,  reading  Dr. 
Tillotson's  sermons  in  the  best  parlour  at  Salem;  then 
he  swung  round  on  the  girl  and  caught  both  her  hands 
in  his.  "Yes,  there  is,"  he  cried,  "if  you  are  willing. 
Polixena,  let  the  priest  come !" 

• 

She  shrank  back  from  him,  white  and  radiant.  "Oh, 
hush,  be  silent !"  she  said. 

"I  am  no  noble  Marquess,  and  have  no  great  es 
tates,"  he  cried.  "My  father  is  a  plain  India  merchant 
in  the  colony  of  Massachusetts — but  if  you — " 

"Oh,  hush,  I  say!  I  don't  know  what  your  long 
words  mean.  But  I  bless  you,  bless  you,  bless  you  on 
[307] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

my  knees!"  And  she  knelt  before  him,  and  fell  to- 
kissing  his  hands. 

He  drew  her  up  to  his  breast  and  held  her  there. 

"You  are  willing,  Polixena?"  he  said. 

"No,  no!"  She  broke  from  him  with  outstretched 
hands.  "I  am  not  willing.  You  mistake  me.  I  must 
marry  the  Marquess,  I  tell  you !" 

"On  my  money?"  he  taunted  her;  and  her  burning 
blush  rebuked  him. 

"Yes,  on  your  money,"  she  said  sadly. 

"Why?  Because,  much  as  you  hate  him,  you  hate 
me  still  more?" 

She  was  silent. 

"If  you  hate  me,  why  do  you  sacrifice  yourself  for 
me?"  he  persisted. 

"You  torture  me!  And  I  tell  you  the  hour  is  past." 

"Let  it  pass.  I'll  not  accept  your  sacrifice.  I  will 
not  lift  a  finger  to  help  another  man  to  marry  you." 

"Oh,  madman,  madman!"  she  murmured. 

Tony,  with  crossed  arms,  faced  her  squarely,  and 
she  leaned  against  the  wall  a  few  feet  off  from  him. 
Her  breast  throbbed  under  its  lace  and  falbalas,  and 
her  eyes  swam  with  terror  and  entreaty. 

"Polixena,  I  love  you !"  he  cried. 

A  blush  swept  over  her  throat  and  bosom,  bathing 
her  in  light  to  the  verge  of  her  troubled  brows. 

"I  love  you !  I  love  you !"  he  repeated. 
[308] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

And  now  she  was  on  his  breast  again,  and  all  their 
youth  was  in  their  lips.  But  her  embrace  was  as  fleet 
ing  as  a  bird's  poise,,  and  before  he  knew  it  he  clasped 
empty  air  and  half  the  room  was  between  them. 

She  was  holding  up  a  little  coral  charm  and  laugh 
ing.  "I  took  it  from  your  fob,"  she  said.  "It  is  of  no 
value,  is  it?  And  I  shall  not  get  any  of  the  money, 
you  know." 

She  continued  to  laugh  strangely,  and  the  rouge 
burned  like  fire  in  her  ashen  face. 

"What  are  you  talking  of?"  he  said. 

"They  never  give  me  anything  but  the  clothes  I 
wear.  And  I  shall  never  see  you  again,  Anthony !"  She 
gave  him  a  dreadful  look.  "Oh,  my  poor  boy,  my  poor 
love — '/  love  you,  I  love  you,  Polixena!' ' 

He  thought  she  had  turned  light-headed,  and  ad 
vanced  to  her  with  soothing  words ;  but  she  held  him 
quietly  at  arm's  length,  and  as  he  gazed  he  read  the 
truth  in  her  face. 

He  fell  back  from  her,  and  a  sob  broke  from  him 
*as  he  bowed  his  head  on  his  hands. 

"Only,  for  God's  sake,  have  the  money  ready,  or 
there  may  be  foul  play  here,"  she  said. 

As  she  spoke  there  was  a  great  tramping  of  steps 
outside  and  a  burst  of  voices  on  the  threshold. 

"It  is  all  a  lie,"  she  gasped  out,  "about  my  mar 
riage,  and  the  Marquess,  and  the  Ambassador,  and 
[309] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

the  Senator — but  not,  oh,  not  about  your  danger  in 
this  place — or  about  my  love,"  she  breathed  to  him. 
And  as  the  key  rattled  in  the  door  she  laid  her  lips 
on  his  brow. 

The  key  rattled,  and  the  door  swung  open — but 
the  black-cassocked  gentleman  who  stepped  in,  though 
a  priest  indeed,  was  no  votary  of  idolatrous  rites,  but 
that  sound  orthodox  divine,  the  Reverend  Ozias 
Mounce,  looking  very  much  perturbed  at  his  surround 
ings,  and  very  much  on  the  alert  for  the  Scarlet 
Woman.  He  was  supported,  to  his  evident  relief,  by 
the  captain  of  the  Hepzibah  B.,  and  the  procession 
was  closed  by  an  escort  of  stern-looking  fellows  in 
cocked  hats  and  small-swords,  who  led  between  them 
Tony's  late  friends  the  magnificoes,  now  as  sorry  a 
looking  company  as  the  law  ever  landed  in  her  net. 

The  captain  strode  briskly  into  the  room,  uttering  a 
grunt  of  satisfaction  as  he  clapped  eyes  on  Tony. 

"So,  Mr.  Bracknell,"  said  he,  "you  have  been  see 
ing  the  Carnival  with  this  pack  of  mummers,  have 
you?  And  this  is  where  your  pleasuring  has  landed 
you?  H'm — a  pretty  establishment,  and  a  pretty  lady 
at  the  head  of  it."  He  glanced  about  the  apartment, 
and  doffed  his  hat  with  mock  ceremony  to  Polixena, 
who  faced  him  like  a  princess. 

"Why,  my  girl,"  said  he,  amicably,  "I  think  I  saw 
you  this  morning  in  the  square,  on  the  arm  of  the 
[310] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

Pantaloon  yonder;  and  as  for  that  Captain  Spa- 
vent — "  and  he  pointed  a  derisive  finger  at  the  Mar 
quess — "I've  watched  him  drive  his  bully's  trade 
under  the  arcade  ever  since  I  first  dropped  anchor  in 
these  waters.  Well,  well,"  he  continued,  his  indigna 
tion  subsiding,  "all's  fair  in  Carnival,  I  suppose,  but 
this  gentleman  here  is  under  sailing  orders,  and  I 
fear  we  must  break  up  your  little  party." 

At  this  Tony  saw  Count  Rialto  step  forward,  look 
ing  very  small  and  explanatory,  and  uncovering 
obsequiously  to  the  captain. 

"I  can  assure  you,  sir,"  said  the  Count  in  his  best 
English,  "that  this  incident  is  the  result  of  an  un 
fortunate  misunderstanding,  and  if  you  will  oblige 
us  by  dismissing  these  myrmidons,  any  of  my  friends 
here  will  be  happy  to  offer  satisfaction  to  Mr.  Brack- 
nell  and  his  companions." 

Mr.  Mounce  shrank  visibly  at  this,  and  the  captain 
burst  into  a  loud  guffaw. 

"Satisfaction?"  says  he.  "Why,  my  cock,  that's 
very  handsome  of  you,  considering  the  rope's  at  your 
throats.  But  we'll  not  take  advantage  of  your  gener 
osity,  for  I  fear  Mr.  Bracknell  has  already  trespassed 
on  it  too  long.  You  pack  of  galley-slaves,  you!"  he 
spluttered  suddenly,  "decoying  young  innocents  with 
that  devil's  bait  of  yours — "  His  eye  fell  on  Polixena, 
and  his  voice  softened  unaccountably.  "Ah,  well,  we 
[811] 


A    VENETIAN    NIGHT 

must  all  see  the  Carnival  once,  I  suppose,"  he  said. 
"All's  well  that  ends  well,  as  the  fellow  says  in  the 
play;  and  now,  if  you  please,  Mr.  Bracknell,  if  you'll 
take  the  reverend  gentleman's  arm  there,  we'll  bid 
adieu  to  our  hospitable  entertainers,  and  right  about 
face  for  the  Hepzibah." 


[312] 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


DEC  1  2  1966  7  6 


no  1 1  W9 


6  1979 


RECEIVED 


18 '67 -11  AM 


JAN 

U9rl5  3 

JK  CIR.  J 
i/VM  1  Ei  1 

UL  1  0   187| 

q?9 

u.c. 


DM 
~oi    r  n 


